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■  GIFT  or 

^lisabeth  Whitney  Putnai 


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■'unfortunately  the  matches  are  bad,  the  chimney  smokes,  the  wood 
GOES  out." — Page  1. 


AK 


ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER 
IN  PARIS; 


OR, 


A  PEEP  AT  THE  WORLD  FROM  A  GARRET. 


BEING  THE  JOURNAL  OF  A  HAPPY  MAN. 


FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF 

EMILE  SOUVESTRE. 


3  J  33J9JJJ3  J>  V 

J       »    ,  *       9  ^     t    '      '  .     >    '  ,         5   '     >       J      >    ,  -> 


NEW  YORKt 
A,  L.  BURT.  PUBLISHER. 


c       •    •»    •    •      e 

t-    c-       »      « c 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


"We  know  a  man  who,  in  the  midst  of  the  fever 
of  restlessness  and  of  ambition  which  racks  society  in 
our  times,  continues  to  fill  his  humble  part  in  the 
world  without  a  murmur,  and  who  still  preserves, 
so  to  speak,  the  taste  for  poverty.  AVith  no  other 
fortune  than  a  small  clerkship,  which  enables  him 
to  live  within  the  narrow  limits  which  separate 
competence  from  want,  our  philosopher  looks  from 
the  height  of  his  attic  upon  society  as  upon  a  sea, 
of  which  he  neither  covets  the  riches  nor  fears  the 
wrecks.  Being  too  insignificant  to  excite  the  envy 
of  any  one,  he  sleeps  peacefully,  wrapped  in  his 
obscurity. 

IS'ot  that  he  retreats  into  egotism  as  a  tortoise 
into  its  shell !  He  is  the  man  of  whom  Terence 
says  that  "  nothing  human  seems  foreign  to  him  !" 
All  external  objects  and  incidents  are  reflected  in 
his  mind  as  in  a  camera  obscura,  which  presents 
their  images  in  a  picture.  He  "  looks  at  society  as 
it  is,  in  itself,"  with  the  patient  curiousness  whicl 


iv  ADVERTISEMENT. 

belongs  to  recluses;  and  he  writes  a  monthly 
journal  of  what  he  has  seen  or  thought.  It  is 
the  "  Calendar  of  His  Impressions,"  as  he  is  wont 
to  call  it. 

We  have  been  allowed  to  look  over  it,  and  have 
extracted  some  pages  which  may  make  the  reader 
acquainted  with  the  commonplace  adventures  of  an 
unknown  thinker  in  those  twelve  hostelries  of  time 
called  months. 


CONTENTS, 


CHAPTER  I.  PAGE 

The  Attic  New  Year's  Gifts 1 

CHAPTER  II. 
The  Carnival 12 

CHAPTER  III. 
What  We  May  Learn  by  Looking  Out  of  Window 25 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Let  us  Love  One  Another 37 

CHAPTER  V. 
Compensation 50 

CHAPTER  VI. 
Uncle  Maurice 64 

CHAPTER  VII. 
The  Price  of  Power  and  the  Worth  of  Fame 80 

CHAPTER  VIIL 
Misanthropy  and  Repentance 97 

CHAPTER  IX. 
The  Family  of  Michael  Arout 109 

CHAPTER  X. 
Our  Country 127 

CHAPTER  XL 
Moral  Use  of  Inventories 146 

CHAPTER  XII. 
The  End  of  the  Year 166 

In  the  Chimney  Cokner 183 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


CHAPTEE  I. 

THE    ATTIC    NEW    YEAr's    GIFTS. 

January  \st. — The  day  of  the  month  came  into 
my  mind  as  soon  as  I  awoke.  Another  year  is 
separated  from  the  chain  of  ages  and  drops  into  the 
gulf  of  the  past !  The  crowd  hasten  to  welcome  her 
young  sister.  But  while  all  looks  are  turned  toward 
the  future,  mine  revert  to  the  past.  Every  one 
smiles  upon  the  new  queen  ;  but,  in  spite  of  myself, 
I  think  of  her  whom  time  has  just  wrapped  in  her 
winding-sheet.  The  past  year ! — at  least  I  know 
what  she  was  and  what  she  has  given  me  ;  while 
this  one  comes  surrounded  by  all  the  forebodings  of 
the  unknown.  What  does  she  hide  in  the  clouds 
which  mantle  her  ?  Is  it  the  storm  or  the  sunshine  ? 
Just  now  it  rains,  and  I  feel  my  mind  as  gloomy  as 
the  sky.  I  have  a  holiday  to-day  ;  but  what  can  one 
do  with  a  rainy  day  %  I  walk  up  and  down  my  attic 
out  of  temper,  and  I  determine  to  light  m3^  fire. 

Unfortunately  the  matches  are  bad,  the  chimney 
smokes,  the  wood  goes  out !  I  throw  down  my 
bellows  in  disgust,  and  sink  into  my  old  arm-chair. 


2  AN  A  TTia  'Philosopher  in  pa  bis. 

In  truth,  wliy  should  I  rejoice  to  see  the  birth  of 
a  new  year  ?  All  those  who  are  already  in  the 
streets,  with  the  holiday  looks  and  smiling  faces — ■ 
do  they  understand  what  makes  them  so  gay  ?  Do 
they  even  know  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  holi- 
da}^  or  whence  comes  the  custom  of  New  Year's 
gifts  ? 

Here  my  mind  pauses  to  prove  to  itself  its  supe- 
riority over  that  of  the  vulgar.  I  make  a  parenthesis 
in  my  ill-temper  in  favor  of  my  vanity,  and  I  bring 
together  all  the  evidence  which  my  knowledge  can 
produce. 

(The  old  Eomans  divided  the  year  into  ten 
months  only  ;  it  was  Numa  Pompilius  who  added 
January  and  rebruar}^  The  former  took  its  name 
from  Janus,  to  whom  it  was  dedicated.  As  it  opened 
the  new  year,  they  surrounded  its  commencement 
with  good  omens,  and  thence  came  the  custom  of 
visits  between  neighbors,  of  wishing  happiness,  and 
of  New  Year's  gifts.  The  presents  given  by  the 
Romans  were  symbolic.  They  consisted  of  dr}^  figs, 
dates,  honeycomb,  as  emblems  of  "  the  sweetness  of 
the  auspices  under  which  the  year  should  begin  its 
course,"  and  a  small  piece  of  money  called  stips, 
which  foreboded  riches.) 

Here  I  close  the  parenthesis,  and  return  to  my 
ill-humor.  The  little  speech^  I  have  just  addressed 
to  myself  has  restored  me  my  self-satisfaction,  but 
made  me  more  dissatisfied  with  others.  I  could  now 
enjoy  my  breakfast ;  but  the  portress  has  forgotten 

*  Switch  in  the  original. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAHIS.  3 

my  morning's  milk,  and  the  pot  of  preserves  is 
empty  !  Any  one  else  would  have  been  vexed  :  as 
for  me,  I  aifect  the  most  supreme  indifference. 
There  remains  a  hard  crust,  which  I  break  by  main 
strength,  and  which  I  carelessly  nibble,  as  a  man 
far  above  the  vanities  of  the  world  and  of  fresh 
rolls. 

However,  I  do  not  know  why  my  thoughts  should 
grow  more  gloomy  by  reason  of  the  difficulties  of 
mastication.  I  once  read  the  story  of  an  English- 
man who  hanged  himself  because  the}^  had  brought 
him  his  tea  without  sugar.  There  are  hours  in  life 
when  the  most  trifling  cross  takes  the  form  of  a  ca- 
lamity. Our  tempers  are  like  an  opera-glass,  which 
makes  the  object  small  or  great  according  to  the 
end  you  look  through. 

Generally,  the  prospect  which  opens  out  before 
my  window  delights  me.  It  is  a  mountain  range  of 
roofs,  with  ridges  crossing,  interlacing,  and  piled  on 
one  another,  and  upon  which  tall  chimne3's  raise 
their  peaks.  It  was  but  yesterday  that  they  had  an 
Alpine  aspect  to  me,  and  I  waited  for  the  first 
snow-storm  to  see  glaciers  among  them  ;  to-day,  I 
only  see  tiles  and  stone  flues.  The  pigeons,  \vhich 
assisted  my  rural  illusions,  seem  no  more  than  mis- 
erable birds  which  have  mistaken  the  roof  for  the 
back  yard  ;  the  smoke,  which  rises  in  light  clouds, 
instead  of  making  me  dream  of  the  panting  of 
Vesuvius,  reminds  me  of  kitchen  preparations  and 
dish-water  ;  and  lastly,  the  telegraph,  that  I  see  far 
off  on  the  old  tower  of  Montmartre,  has  the  effect 
of  a  vile  gallows  stretching  its  arms  over  the  cityo 


4  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

My  eyes,  thus  hurt  by  all  they  meet,  fall  upon  the 
great  man's  house  which  faces  my  attic. 

The  influence  of  New  Year's  Day  is  visible  there. 
The  servants  have  an  air  of  eagerness  proportioned 
to  the  value  of  their  New  Year's  gifts,  received  or 
expected.  I  see  the  master  of  the  house  crossing 
the  court  with  the  morose  look  of  a  man  who  is 
forced  to  be  generous ;  and  the  visitors  increase,  fol- 
lowed by  shop  porters  who  carry  flowers,  band- 
boxes, or  toys.  All  at  once  the  great  gates  are 
opened,  and  a  new  carriage,  drawn  by  thorough- 
bred horses,  draws  up  before  the  door-steps.  They, 
are,  without  doubt,  the  New  Year's  gift  presented 
to  the  mistress  of  the  house  by  her  husband;  for  she 
comes  herself  to  look  at  the  new  equipage.  Yery 
soon  she  gets  into  it  with  a  little  girl,  all  streaming 
with  laces,  feathers,  and  velvets,  and  loaded  with 
parcels  which  she  goes  to  distribute  as  New  Year's 
gifts.  The  door  is  shut,  the  windows  are  drawn  up, 
the  carriage  sets  off. 

Thus  all  the  world  are  exchanging  good  wishes 
and  presents  to-day :  I  alone  have  nothing  to  give 
or  to  receive.  Poor  Solitary  !  I  do  not  even  know 
one  chosen  being  for  whom  I  might  offer  a  prayer. 

Then  let  my  wishes  for  a  happy  New  Year  go,  and 
seek  out  all  my  unknown  friends — lost  in  the  multi- 
tude which  murmurs  like  the  ocean  at  my  feet ! 

To  you  first,  hermits  in  cities,  for  whom  death 
and  poverty  have  created  a  solitude  in  the  midst  of 
the  crowd  !  unhappy  laborers,  who  are  condemned 
to  toil  in  melancholy,  and  eat  your  daily  bread  in 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS,  5 

Silence  and  desertion,  and  whom  God  has  withdrawn 
from  the  intoxicating  pangs  of  love  or  friendship! 

To  you,  fond  dreamers,  who  pass  through  life 
with  your  eyes  turned  toward  some  polar  star,  while 
you  tread  with  indifference  over  the  rich  harvests  of 
reality ! 

To  you,  honest  fathers,  w^ho  lengthen  out  the 
evening  to  maintain  your  families!  to  you,  poor 
widows,  weeping  and  working  by  a  cradle !  to  you, 
young  men,  resolutely  set  to  open  for  yourselves  a 
path  in  life,  large  enough  to  lead  through  it  the 
wife  of  your  choice !  to  you,  all  brave  soldiers  of 
work  and  of  self-sacrifice  ! 

To  you,  lastly,  whatever  your  title  and  your 
name,  who  love  good,  who  pity  the  suffering;  who 
walk  through  the  world  like  the  symbolical  Virgin 
of  Byzantium,  with  both  arms  open  to  the  human 
race! 

Here  I  am  suddenly  interrupted  by  loud  and 
increasing  chirpings.  I  look  about  me  :  my  window 
is  surrounded  with  sparrows  picking  up  the  crumbs 
of  bread  which  in  my  brown-study  I  had  just  scat- 
tered on  the  roof.  At  this  sight  a  flash  of  light 
broke  upon  my  saddened  heart.  I  deceived  myself 
just  now  when  I  complained  that  I  had  nothing  to 
give :  thanks  to  me,  the  sparrows  of  this  part  of  the 
town  will  have  their  ]N^ew  Year's  gifts! 

Twelve  O^cloch. — A  knock  at  m}^  door ;  a  poor  girl 
comes  in  and  greets  me  by  name.  At  first  I  do  not 
recollect  her  ;  but  she  looks  at  me  and  smiles.  Ah! 
it  is  Paulette  !    But  it  is  almost  a  year  since  I  have 


6  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

seen  her,  and  Paulette  is  no  longer  the  same :  the 
other  day  she  was  a  child,  now  she  is  almost  a  young 
woman. 

Paulette  is  thin,  pale,  and  miserably  clad  ;  but  she 
has  always  the  same  open  and  straightforward  look 
— the  same  mouth,  smiling  at  every  word,  as  if  to 
court  your  sympathy — the  same  voice,  somewhat 
timid,  yet  expressing  fondness.  Paulette  is  not 
pretty — she  is  even  thought  plain ;  as  for  me,  I 
think  her  charming.  Perhaps  that  is  not  on  her 
account,  but  on  my  own.  Paulette  appears  to  me 
as  a  part  of  one  of  my  happiest  recollections. 

It  was  the  evening  of  a  public  holiday.  Our 
principal  buildings  were  illumihated  with  festoons 
of  fire,  a  thousand  flags  waved  in  the  night  winds, 
and  the  fireworks  had  just  shot  forth  their  spouts 
of  flame  into  the  midst  of  the  Champ  de  Mars.  All 
of  a  sudden,  one  of  those  unaccountable  alarms 
which  strike  a  multitude  with  panic  fell  upon  the 
dense  crowd  :  they  cry  out,  they  rush  on  headlong ; 
the  weaker  ones  fall,  and  the  frightened  crowd 
tramples  them  down  in  its  convulsive  struggles.  I 
escaped  from  the  confusion  by  a  miracle,  and  was 
hastening  away,  when  the  cries  of  a  perishing  child 
arrested  me  :  I  reentered  that  human  chaos,  and, 
after  unheard-of  exertions,  I  brought  Paulette  out 
of  it  at  the  peril  of  my  life. 

That  was  two  years  ago :  since  then  I  had  not 
seen  the  child  again  but  at  long  intervals,  and  I  had 
almost  forgotten  her ;  but  Paulette's  memory  was 
that  of  a  grateful  heart,  and  she  came  at  the  begin- 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  7 

ning  of  the  year  to  offer  me  her  wishes  for  my 
happiness.  She  brought  me,  besides,  a  wallflower 
in  full  bloom.  She  herself  had  planted  and  reared 
it :  it  was  something  that  belonged  wholly  to  her- 
self ;  for  it  was  by  her  care,  her  perseverance,  and  her 
patience  that  she  had  obtained  it. 

The  wallflower  had  grown  in  a  common  pot;  but 
Paulette,  who  is  a  bandbox  maker,  had  put  it  into  a 
case  of  varnished  paper,  ornamented  with  ara- 
besques. These  might  have  been  in  better  taste, 
but  I  did  not  feel  the  attention  and  good- will  the 
less. 

This  unexpected  present,  the  little  girl's  modest 
blushes,  the  compliments  she  stammered  out,  dis- 
pelled, as  by  a  sunbeam,  the  kind  of  mist  which  had 
gathered  round  ray  mind  ;  my  thoughts  suddenly 
changed  from  the  leaden  tints  of  evening  to  the 
brightest  colors  of  dawn.  I  made  Paulette  sit 
down  and  questioned  her  with  a  light  heart. 

At  first  the  little  girl  replied  by  monosyllables ; 
but  very  soon  the  tables  were  turned,  and  it  was  I 
who  interrupted  with  short  interjections  her  long 
and  confidential  talk.  The  poor  child  leads  a  hard 
life.  She  was  left  an  orphan  long  since,  with  a 
brother  and  sister,  and  lives  with  an  old  grand- 
mother, who  has  "  brought  them  up  to  poverty,"  as 
she  always  calls  it. 

However,  Paulette  now  helps  her  to  make  band- 
boxes, her  little  sister  Perrine  begins  to  use  the 
needle,  and  her  brother  Henry  is  apprentice  to  a 
printer.     All  would  go  well  if  it  were  not  for  losses 


8  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHY li  IN  PARIS. 

and  want  of  vA^ork — if  it  were  not  for  clothes  which 
wear  out,  for  appetites  w^hich  grow  larger,  and  for 
the  winter,  when  you  cannot  get  sunshine  for  noth- 
ing. Paulette  complains  that  her  candles  go  too 
quickly  and  that  her  wood  costs  too  much.  The 
fireplace  in  their  garret  is  so  large  that  a  fagot 
makes  no  more  show  in  it  than  a  match  ;  it  is  so 
near  the  roof  that  the  wind  blows  the  rain  down  it, 
and  in  winter  it  hails  upon  the  hearth,  so  they 
have  left  off  using  it.  Henceforth  they  must  be 
content  with  an  earthen  chafing-dish,  upon  which 
they  cook  their  meals.  The  grandmother  had 
often  spoken  of  a  stove  that  w^as  for  sale  at  the 
broker's  close  by;  but  he  asked  7  francs  for  it, 
and  the  times  are  too  hard  for  such  an  expense  : 
the  family,  therefore,  resign  themselves  to  cold  for 
economy ! 

As  Paulette  spoke,  I  felt  more  and  more  that  I 
was  losing  my  fretfulness  and  low  spirits.  The  first 
disclosures  of  the  little  bandbox  maker  created 
within  me  a  wish  that  soon  became  a  plan.  I  ques- 
tioned her  about  her  daily  occupations,  and  she  in- 
formed me  that  on  leaving  me  she  must  go,  with 
her  brother,  her  sister,  and  grandmother,  to  the 
different  people  for  whom  they  work.  My  plan  was 
immediately  settled.  I  told  tne  child  that  I  would 
go  to  see  her  in  the  evening,  and  I  sent  her  away 
with  fresh  thanks. 

I  placed  the  wallflower  in  the  open  window, 
where  a  ray  of  sunshine  bid  it  welcome ;  the  birds 
were  singing  around,  the  sky  had  cleared  up,  and 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAPU8.  9 

the  day,  which  began  so  loweringly,  had  become 
bright.  1  sang  as  I  moved  about  my  room,  and, 
having  hastily  put  on  my  hat  and  coat,  I  went  out. 

Three  O'clock. — All  is  settled  with  mv  neio^hbor, 
the  chimney-doctor  ;  he  will  repair  my  old  stove, 
and  answers  for  its  being  as  good  as  new.  At  five 
o'clock  we  are  to  set  out,  and  put  it  up  in  Faulette's 
grandmother's  room. 

Midnight. — All  has  gone  off  well.  At  the  hour 
agreed  upon  I  was  at  the  old  bandbox  maker's;  she 
was  still  out.  My  Fiedmontese*  fixed  tlie  stove, 
while  I  arranged  a  dozen  logs  in  the  great  fireplace, 
taken  from  my  winter  stock.  I  shall  make  up  for 
them  by  warming  myself  with  walking,  or  by  going 
to  bed  earlier. 

My  heart  beat  at  every  step  which  was  heard  on 
the  staircase ;  I  trembled  lest  they  should  interrupt 
me  in  my  preparations,  and  should  thus  spoil  my 
intended  surprise.  But  no — see  everything  read}^ : 
the  lighted  stove  murmurs  gently,  the  little  lamp 
burns  upon  the  table,  and  a  bottle  of  oil  for  it  is 
provided  on  the  shelf.  The  chimney-doctor  is  gone. 
Now  my  fear  lest  they  should  come  is  changed  into 
impatience  at  their  not  coming.  At  last  I  hear 
children's  voices  ;  here  they  are  :  they  push  open  the 
door  and  rush  in — but  they  all  stop  in  astonish- 
ment. 

At  the  sight  of  the  lamp,  the  stove,  and  the  vis- 

*In  Paris  a  chimney-sweeper  is  named  "Piedmontese  "  or 
"  Savoyard,"  as  they  usually  come  from  that  country. 


10  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PATllS. 

itor,  who  stands  there  like  a  magician  in  the  midst 
of  these  wonders,  they  draw  back  almost  fright- 
ened. Paulette  is  the  first  to  comprehend  it,  and 
the  arrival  of  the  grandmother,  who  is  more  slowly 
mounting  the  stairs,  finishes  the  explanation.  Then 
come  tears,  ecstasies,  thanks  ! 

But  the  wonders  are  not  yet  ended.  The  little 
sister  opens  the  oven,  and  discovers  some  chestnuts 
just  roasted  ;  the  grandmother  puts  her  hand  on  the 
bottles  of  cider  arranged  on  the  dresser ;  and  I  draw 
forth  from  the  basket  that  I  have  hidden  a  cold 
tongue,  a  pot  of  butter,  and  some  fresh  rolls. 

Now  their  wonder  turns  into  admiration  ;  the  lit- 
tle family  have  never  seen  such  a  feast !  They  lay 
the  cloth,  they  sit  down,  they  eat ;  it  is  a  complete 
banquet  for  all,  and  each  contributes  his  share  to  it. 
I  had  brought  only  the  supper :  and  the  bandbox 
maker  and  her  children  supplied  the  enjoyment. 

What  bursts  of  laughter  at  nothing!  What  a 
hubbub  of  questions  which  waited  for  no  reply,  of 
replies  which  answered  no  question !  The  old 
woman  herself  shared  in  the  wild  merriment  of  the 
little  ones.  I  have  always  been  struck  at  the  ease 
with  which  the  poor  forget  their  wretchedness. 
Being  only  used  to  live  for  the  present,  they  make 
a  gain  of  every  pleasure  as  soon  as  it  offers  itself. 
But  the  surfeited  rich  are  more  difficult  to  satisfy  : 
they  require  time  and  everything  to  suit  before  they 
will  consent  to  be  happy. 

The  evening  has  passed  like  a  moment.  The  old 
woman  told  me  the  history  of   her  life,  sometimes 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHEn  IN  PABIS.  H 

smiliDg,  sometimes  drying  her  eyes.  Perrine  sang 
an  old  ballad  with  her  fresh  young  voice.  Henry 
told  us  what  he  knows  of  the  great  writers  of  the 
day,  to  whom  he  has  to  carry  their  proofs.  At  last 
we  were  obliged  to  separate,  not  without  fresh 
thanks  on  the  part  of  the  happy  family. 

I  have  come  home  slowly,  ruminating  with  a  full 
heart  and  pure  enjoyment  on  the  simple  events  of 
my  evening.  It  has  given  me  much  comfort  and 
much  instruction.  JS^ow  no  New  Year's  Day  will 
come  amiss  to  me ;  I  know  that  no  one  is  so  un- 
happy as  to  have  nothing  to  give  and  nothing  to 
receive. 

As  I  came  in,  I  met  my  rich  neighbor's  new 
equipage.  She,  too,  had  just  returned  from  her 
evening's  party ;  and,  as  she  sprang  from  the  car- 
riage-step wuth  feverish  impatience,  I  heard  her 
murmur — "  At  last !" 

I,  when  I  left  Paulette's  family, said — So  "soon!" 


12  AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


CHAPTEK  11. 


THE    CARNIVAL. 


February  20th. — What  a  noise  out  of  doors! 
What  is  the  meaning  of  these  shouts  and  cries? 
Ah !  I  recollect :  this  is  the  last  day  of  the  Carnival, 
and  the  maskers  are  passing. 

Christianity  has  not  been  able  to  abolish  the 
noisy  bacchanalian  festivals  of  the  pagan  times, 
but  it  has  changed  the  names.  That  which  it  has 
given  to  these  "  days  of  liberty "  announces  the 
ending  of  the  feasts  and  the  month  of  fasting  which 
should  follow  ;  "  carn-i-val"  means  literally  "  down 
v/ith  flesh  meat !"  It  is  a  forty  days'  farewell  to 
the  "  blessed  pullets  and  fat  hams,"  so  celebrated 
by  Pantagruel's  minstrel.  Man  prepares  for  priva- 
tion by  satiety,  and  finishes  his  sin  thoroughly  be- 
fore he  begins  to  repent. 

Why,  in  all  ages  and  among  every  people,  do  we 
meet  with  some  one  of  these  mad  festivals  ?  Must 
we  believe  that  it  requires  such  an  effort  for  men  to 
be  reasonable  that  the  weaker  ones  have  need  of 
rests  at  intervals  ?  The  monks  of  La  Trappe,  who 
are  condemned  to  silence  by  their  rule,  are  allowed 
to  speak  once  in  a  month,  and  on  this  day  they  all 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  13 

talk  at  once  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  of  the 
sun. 

Perhaps  it  is  the  same  in  the  world.  As  we  are 
obliged  all  the  year  to  be  decent,  orderh',  and  rea- 
sonable, we  make  up  for  such  a  long  restraint  dur- 
ing the  Carnival.  It  is  a  door  opened  to  the  incon- 
gruous fancies  and  wishes  which  have  hitherto  been 
crowded  back  into  a  corner  of  our  brain.  For  a 
moment  the  slaves  become  the  masters,  as  in  the 
days  of  the  Saturnalia,  and  everything  is  given  up 
to  the  "  fools  of  the  family." 

The  shouts  in  the  square  redouble  ;  the  troops  of 
masks  increase — on  foot,  in  carriages,  and  on  horse- 
back. It  is  now  who  can  attract  the  most  atten- 
tion by  making  a  figure  for  a  few  hours,  or  by 
exciting  curiosity  or  envy  ;  to-morrow  they  will  all 
return,  dull  and  exhausted,  to  the  employments  and 
troubles  of  yesterday. 

Alas  !  thought  I  with  vexation,  each  of  us  is  like 
these  masqueraders  ;  our  whole  life  is  often  but  an 
unsightly  carnival !  And  yet  man  has  need  of  holi- 
days, to  relax  his  mind,  rest  his  body,  and  open  his 
heart.  Can  he  not  have  them,  then,  with  these 
coarse  pleasures?  Economists  have  been  long  in- 
quiring what  is  the  best  disposal  of  the  industry  of 
the  human  race.  Ah  !  if  I  could  only  discover  the 
best  disposal  of  its  leisure !  It  is  easy  enough  to 
find  it  work  ;  but  who  will  find  it  relaxation  ?  Work 
supplies  the  daily  bread ;  but  it  is  cheerfulness 
w^hich  gives  it  a  relish.  O  philosophers  !  go  in  quest 
of  pleasure  !  find  us  amusements  without  brutality, 


14  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

enjoyments  without  selfishness  ;  in  a  word,  invent  a 
Carnival  which  will  please  everybody  and  bring 
shame  to  no  one. 

Three  O'^clock. — I  have  just  shut  my  window  and 
stirred  up  my  fire.  As  this  is  a  holiday  for  every- 
bod}^,  I  will  make  it  one  for  myself  too.  So  I  light 
the  little  lamp  over  which,  on  grand  occasions,  I 
make  a  cup  of  the  coffee  that  my  portress'  son 
brought  from  the  Levant,  and  I  look  in  my  book- 
case for  one  of  my  favorite  authors. 

First,  here  is  the  amusing  parson  of  Meudon  ;  but 
his  characters  are  too  fond  of  talking  slang  :  Vol- 
taire ;  but  he  disheartens  men  by  always  bantering 
them  :  Moliere  ;  but  he  hinders  one's  laughter  by 
making  one  think:  Lesage ;  let  us  stop  at  him. 
Being  profound  rather  than  grave,  he  preaches 
virtue  while  ridiculing  vice ;  if  bitterness  is  some- 
times to  be  found  in  his  writings,  it  is  always  in  the 
garb  of  mirth  :  he  sees  the  miseries  of  the  world 
without  despising  it,  and  knows  its  cowardly  tricks 
without  hating  it. 

Let  us  call  up  all  the  heroes  of  his  book.  Gil 
Bias,  Fabrice,  Sangrado,  the  Archbishop  of  Granada, 
the  Duke  of  Lerma,  Aurora,  Scipio  !  Ye  gay  or 
graceful  figures,  rise  before  my  eyes,  people  my 
solitude ;  bring  hither  for  my  amusement  the  world- 
carnival,  of  wiiich  you  are  the  brilliant  maskers ! 

Unfortunately,  at  the  very  moment  I  made  this 
invocation,  I  recollected  I  had  a  letter  to  write 
which  could  not  be  put  off.  One  of  my  attic  neigh- 
bors came  yesterday  to  ask  me  to  do  it.     He  is  a 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAIIIS.  15 

cheerful  old  man  and  has  a  passion  for  pictures  and 
prints.  He  comes  home  almost  every  day  with  a 
drawing  or  painting — probably  of  little  value  ;  for 
I  know  he  lives  penuriously,  and  even  the  letter 
that  1  am  to  write  for  him  shows  his  poverty.  His 
only  son,  who  was  married  in  England,  is  just  dead, 
and  his  widow — left  without  any  means,  and  with 
an  old  mother  and  a  child — had  written  to  beg  for 
a  home.  M.  Antoine  asked  me  first  to  translate  the 
letter,  and  then  to  write  a  refusal.  I  had  promised 
that  he  should  have  this  answer  to-day :  before 
everything,  let  us  fulfill  our  promises. 

The  sheet  of  Bath  paper  is  before  me,  I  have 
dipped  mv  pen  into  the  ink,  and  I  rub  my  forehead 
to  invite  forth  a  sally  of  ideas,  when  I  perceive  that 
I  have  not  my  dictionary.  ]S"ow,  a  Parisian  who 
would  speak  English  without  a  dictionary  is  like  a 
child  without  leadino^-strino:s  :  the  trround  trembles 
under  him  and  he  stumbles  at  the  first  step.  I  run 
then  to  the  bookbinder's  where  I  left  my  Johnson, 
and  who  lives  close  by  in  the  square. 

The  door  is  half-open  ;  I  hear  low  groans  ;  I  en- 
ter without  knocking,  and  I  see  the  bookbinder  by 
the  bedside  of  his  fellow-lodger.  This  latter  has  a 
violent  fever  and  delirium.  Pierre  looks  at  him  per- 
plexed and  out  of  humor.  I  learn  from  him  that 
his  comrade  was  not  able  to  get  up  in  the  morniug, 
and  that  since  then  he  has  become  worse  every 
hour. 

I  ask  if  they  have  sent  for  a  doctor. 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed  !"  replied  Pierre  roughly  ;  •'  one 


16  AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  RI8. 

must  have  money  in  one's  pocket  for  that,  and  this 
fellow  has  only  debts  instead  of  savings.'' 

"  But  you,"  said  I,  rather  astonished  ;  "  are  you 
not  his  friend  ?" 

"  Friend  !"  interrupted  the  bookbinder.  "  Yes,  as 
much  as  the  shaft-horse  is  friend  to  the  leader — on 
condition  that  each  will  take  his  share  of  the 
draught  and  eat  his  feed  by  himself." 

"  You  do  not  intend,  however,  to  leave  him  with- 
out any  help  ?" 

"  Bah  !  he  ma}^  keep  in  his  bed  till  to-morrow,  as 
I'm  going  to  the  ball." 

"  Ycu  mean  to  leave  him  alone  ?" 

"  Well !  must  I  miss  a  party  of  pleasure  at  Court- 
ville^"  because  this  fellow  is  light-headed  ?"  asked 
Pierre  sharply.  "  I  have  promised  to  meet  some 
friends  at  old  Desnoyer's.  Those  who  are  sick  may 
take  their  broth  ;  my  physic  is  white  wine." 

So  saying,  he  untied  a  bundle,  out  of  which  he 
took  the  fancy  costume  of  a  waterman,  and  pro- 
ceeded to  dress  himself  in  it. 

In  v^ain  I  tried  to  awaken  some  fellow-feeling  for 
the  unfortunate  man  who  lay  groaning  there,  close 
by  him  ;  being  entirely  taken  up  with  the  thoughts 
of  his  expected  pleasure,  Pierre  would  hardly  so 
much  as  hear  me.  At  last  his  coarse  selfishness 
provoked  me.  I  began  reproaching  instead  of 
remonstrating  with  him,  and  I  declared  him  re- 
sponsible for  the  consequences  which  such  a 
desertion  must  bring  upon  the  sick  man. 

*  A  Paris  Vauxhall. 


AN  ATTIC  PUILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  17 

At  this  the  bookbinder,  who  was  just  going, 
stopped  with  an  oath,  and  stamped  his  foot.  "Am 
I  to  spend  my  Carnival  in  heating  water  for  foot- 
baths, pray  ?'' 

"  You  must  not  leave  your  comrade  to  die  with- 
out help !"  I  replied. 

"  Let  him  go  to  the  hospital,  then  !" 

"  How  can  he  by  himself  ?" 

Pierre  seemed  to  make  up  his  mind. 

"  Well,  I'm  going  to  take  him,"  resumed  he ; 
"  besides,  I  shall  o^et  rid  of  him  sooner.  Come,  get 
up,  comrade !"  He  shook  his  comrade,  who  had 
not  taken  off  his  clothes.  I  observed  that  he  was 
too  weak  to  walk,  but  the  bookbinder  would  not 
listen  :  he  made  him  get  up,  and  half-dragged,  half- 
supported  him  to  the  lodge  of  the  porter,  who  ran 
for  a  hackney  carriage.  I  saw  the  sick  man  get 
into  it,  almost  fainting,  with  the  impatient  water- 
man ;  and  they  both  set  off,  one  perhaps  to  die,  the 
other  to  dine  at  Courtville  gardens! 

Six  O'clock. — I  have  been  to  knock  at  my  neigh- 
bor's door,  who  opened  it  himself  ;  and  I  have  given 
him  his  letter,  finished  at  last,  and  directed  to  his 
son's  widow.  M.  Antoine  thanked  me  gratefully, 
and  made  me  sit  down. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  been  into  the  attic  of 
the  old  amateur.  Curtains  stained  with  damp  and 
hanging  down  in  rags,  a  cold  stove,  a  bed  of  straw, 
two  broken  chairs,  composed  all  the  furniture.  At 
the  end  of  the  room  were  a  great  number  of  prints 
in  a  heap,  and  paintings  without  frames  turned 
against  the  wall. 


18  Ali  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

At  the  moment  I  came  in,  the  old  man  was 
making  his  dinner  on  some  hard  crusts  of  bread, 
which  he  was  soaking  in  a  glass  of  eau  sucree.  He 
perceived  that  my  eyes  fell  upon  his  hermit  fare, 
and  he  looked  a  little  ashamed. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  tempt  you  in  my  supper, 
neighbor,"  said  he  with  a  smile. 

1  replied  that  at  least  I  thought  it  a  very  phil- 
osophical one  for  the  Carnival. 

M.  Antoine  shook  his  head,  and  went  on  again 
with  his  supper. 

"  Every  one  keeps  his  holidays  in  his  own  way," 
resumed  he,  beginning  again  to  dip  a  crust  into  his 
glass.  "  There  are  several  sorts  of  epicures,  and  all 
feasts  are  not  meant  to  regale  the  palate  ;  there  are 
some  also  for  the  ears  and  the  eyes." 

I  looked  involuntarily  round  me,  as  if  to  seek  for 
the  invisible  banquet  which  could  make  up  to  him 
for  such  a  supper. 

Without  doubt  he  understood  me ;  for  he  got  up 
slowly  and,  with  the  magisterial  air  of  a  man  con- 
fident in  what  he  is  about  to  do,  he  rummaged  be- 
hind several  picture  frames,  drew  forth  a  painting, 
over  which  he  passed  his  hand,  and  silently  placed 
it  under  the  light  of  the  lamp. 

It  represented  a  fine-looking  old  man,  seated  at 
table  with  his  wife,  his  daughter,  and  his  children, 
and  singing  to  the  accompaniment  of  musicians  who 
appeared  in  the  background.  At  first  sight  I  recog- 
nized the  subject,  which  I  had  often  admired  at  the 
Louvre,  and  I  declared  it  to  be  a  splendid  copy  of 
Jordaens. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPUER  IN  PARIS.  19 

''A  copy!"  cried  M.  Antoine ;  "say  an  original, 
neighbor,  and  an  original  retouched  by  Rubens ! 
Look  closer  at  the  head  of  the  old  man,  the  dress  of 
the  young  woman,  and  the  accessories.  One  can 
count  the  pencil  strokes  of  the  Hercules  of  painters. 
It  is  not  only  a  masterpiece,  sir ;  it  is  a  treasure — a 
relic !  The  picture  at  the  Louvre  may  be  a  pearl, 
this  is  a  diamond  !" 

And  resting  it  against  the  stove,  so  as  to  place  it 
in  the  best  liglit,  he  fell  again  to  soaking  his  crusts, 
without  taking  his  eyes  off  the  wonderful  picture. 
One  would  have  said  that  the  sio-ht  of  it  o^ave  the 
crusts  an  unexpected  relish,  for  he  chewed  them 
slowly,  and  emptied  his  glass  by  little  sips.  His 
shriveled  features  became  smooth,  his  nostrils  ex- 
panded ;  it  was  indeed,  as  he  said  himself,  "  a  feast 
of  the  eyes." 

"  You  see  that  I  also  have  my  treat,"  resumed  he, 
nodding  his  head  with  an  air  of  triumph.  "  Others 
may  run  after  dinners  and  balls  ;  as  for  me,  this  is 
the  pleasure  I  give  mj'self  for  my  Carnival." 

"But  if  this  painting  is  really  so  precious,"  re- 
plied I,  "it  ought  to  be  worth  a  high  price." 

"  Eh  !  eh  !"  said  M.  Antoine,  with  an  air  of  proud 
indifference.  "  In  good  times,  a  good  judge  might 
value  it  at  somewhere  about  20,000  francs." 

I  started  back. 

"  And  you  have  bought  it  ?"  cried  I. 

"For  nothing,"  replied  he,  lowering  his  voice. 
*' These  brokers  are  asses  ;    mine  mistook  this  for  a 


20  AN  A  TTIG  PHIL  0  SOP  HER  IN  PARTS. 

student's  copy  ;  he  let  me  have  it  for  50  louis, 
ready  money  !  This  morning  I  took  them  to  him. 
and  now  he  wishes  to  be  off  the  bargain." 

"  This  morning  !"  repeated  I,  involuntarily  casting 
my  eyes  on  the  letter  containing  the  refusal  that 
M.  Antoine  had  made  me  write  to  his  son's  widow, 
and  which  \vas  still  on  the  little  table. 

He  took  no  notice  of  my  exclamation,  and  went 
on  contemplating  the  work  of  Jordaens  in  a  kind  of 
ecstasy. 

"  What  a  knowledge  of  chiaroscuro  !"  murmured 
he,  biting  his  last  crust  in  delight.  "  W  hat  relief  ! 
w^hat  fire  !  Where  can  one  find  such  transparency 
of  color !  such  magical  lights !  such  force !  such 
nature !" 

As  I  w^as  listening  to  him  in  silence,  he  mistook 
my  astonishment  for  admiration  and  clapped  me  on 
the  shoulder. 

*'  You  are  dazzled,"  said  he  merrily  ;  "  you  did 
not  expect  such  a  treasure  !  What  do  you  say  to 
the  bargain  1  have  made?" 

".Pardon  me,"  replied  I  gravely  ;  "  but  I  think 
you  might  have  done  better." 

M.  Antoine  raised  his  head. 

"How  !"  cried  he  ;  "do  you  take  me  for  a  man 
likely  to  be  deceived  about  the  merit  or  value  of  a 
painting?" 

"  I  neither  doubt  your  taste  nor  your  skill ;  but  I 
cannot  help  thinking  that,  for  the  price  of  this 
picture  of  a  family  party,  you  might  have  had " 

"  What  then  ?" 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  21 

"The  family  itself,  sir." 

The  old  amateur  cast  a  look  at  me,  not  of  anger, 
but  of  contempt.  In  his  eyes  I  had  evidently  just 
proved  myself  a  barbarian,  incapable  of  understand- 
ing the  arts  and  unworthy  of  enjoying  them.  He 
got  up  without  answering  me,  hastily  took  up  the 
Jordaens,  and  replaced  it  in  its  hiding-place  behind 
the  prints. 

It  was  a  sort  of  dismissal ;  I  took  leave  of  him 
and  went  away. 

Seven  O^cloch. — When  I  come  in  again  I  find  my 
water  boiling  over  my  little  lamp,  and  I  busy  my- 
self in  grinding  my  Mocha  and  setting  out  my  coffee 
things. 

The  getting  coffee  ready  is  the  most  delicate  and 
most  attractive  of  domestic  operations  to  one  who 
lives  alone  :  it  is  the  grand  w^ork  of  a  bachelor's 
housekeeping. 

Coffee  is,  so  to  say,  just  the  mid-point  between 
bodily  and  spiritual  nourishment.  It  acts  agreeably, 
and  at  the  same  time,  upon  the  senses  and  the 
thoughts.  Its  very  fragrance  gives  a  sort  of  delight- 
ful activity  to  the  wits  ;  it  is  a  genius  w^ho  lends 
wings  to  our  fancy  and  transports  it  to  the  land  of 
the  Arabian  lights. 

When  I  am  buried  in  my  old  easj^-chair,  my  feet 
on  the  fender  before  a  blazing  fire,  my  ear  soothed 
by  the  singing  of  the  coffee-pot,  which  seems  to 
gossip  with  my  fire-irons,  the  sense  of  smell  gently 
excited  by  the  aroma  of  the  Arabian  bean,  and  my 
eyes  shaded  by  my  cap  pulled  down  over  them,  it 


22  ^^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

often  seems  as  if  each  cloud  of  the  fragrant  steam 
took  a  distinct  form.  As  in  the  mirages  of  the 
desert,  in  each  as  it  rises,  I  see  some  image  of  which 
my  mind  had  been  longing  for  the  reality. 

At  first  the  vapor  increases  and  its  color  deepens. 
I  see  a  cottage  on  a  hillside  ;  behind  is  a  garden 
shut  in  by  a  whitethorn  hedge,  and  through  the 
garden  runs  a  brook,  on  the  banks  of  which  I  hear 
the  bees  humming. 

Then  the  view  opens  still  more.  See  those  fields 
planted  with  apple-trees  and  in  which  I  distinguish 
a  plow^  and  horses  waiting  for  their  master ! 
Further  on,  in  a  part  of  the  wood  which  rings  with 
the  sound  of  the  ax,  I  perceive  the  woodsman's  hut, 
roofed  with  turf  and  branches;  and  in  the  midst  of 
all  these  rural  pictures  I  seem  to  see  a  figure  of 
myself  gliding  about.  It  is  my  ghost  walking  in 
my  dream ! 

The  bubbling  of  the  water,  ready  to  boil  over, 
compels  me  to  break  off  my  meditations,  in  order  to 
fill  up  the  coffee-pot.  I  then  remember  that  I  have 
no  cream.  I  take  my  tin  can  off  the  hook  and  go 
down  to  the  milkwoman's. 

Mother  Denis  is  a  hale  countrywoman  from  Sa- 
voy, which  she  left  w^hen  quite  young ;  and,  contrary 
to  the  custom  of  the  Savoyards,  she  has  not  gone 
back  to  it  again.  She  has  neither  husband  nor 
child,  notwithstanding  the  title  they  give  her ;  but 
her  kindness,  which  never  sleeps,  makes  her  worthy 
of  the  name  of  mother. 

A  brave  creature !     Left  by  herself  in  the  battle 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  23 

of  life,  she  makes  good  her  humble  place  in  it  by 
working,  singing,  helping  others,  and  leaving  the 
rest  to  God. 

At  the  door  of  the  milk  shop  I  hear  loud  bursts 
of  laughter.  In  one  of  the  corners  of  the  shop  three 
children  are  sitting  on  the  ground.  They  wear  the 
sooty  dress  of  Savoyard  boys  and  in  their  hands  they 
hold  large  slices  of  bread  and  cheese.  The  youngest 
is  besmeared  up  to  the  eyes  with  his,  and  that  is  the 
reason  of  their  mirth. 

Mother  Denis  points  them  out  to  me. 

"Look  at  the  little  lambs,  how  they  enjoy  them- 
selves !"  said  she,  putting  her  hand  on  the  head  of 
the  little  glutton. 

"  Pie  has  had  no  breakfast,"  puts  in  one  of  the 
others  by  way  of  excuse. 

"Poor  little  thing,"  said  the  milkwoman  ;  "he 
is  left  alone  in  the  streets  of  Paris,  where  he  can 
find  no  other  father  than  the  All-good  God  !" 

"And  that  is  why  you  make  yourself  a  mother  to 
them  f  I  replied  gently. 

"  What  I  do  is  little  enough,"  said  Mother  Denis, 
measuring  out  my  milk ;  "  but  every  day  I  get 
some  of  them  together  out  of  the  street,  that  for 
once  they  may  have  enough  to  eat.  Dear  children  ! 
their  mothers  will  make  up  for  it  in  heaven.  Not  to 
mention  that  they  recall  m}^  native  mountains  to 
me ;  when  the}^  sing  and  dance  I  seem  to  see  our 
old  father  again." 

Here  her  eyes  filled  with  tears. 

"  So  you  are  repaid  by  your  recollections  for  the 
good  you  do  them  ?"  resumed  I. 


24  ^-ZV  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

'*'  Yes !  yes  !"  said  she,  "  and  by  their  happiness 
too !  The  laughter  of  these  little  ones,  sir,  is  like  a 
bird's  song ;  it  makes  you  gay  and  gives  you  heart 
to  live." 

As  she  spoke  she  cut  some  fresh  slices  of  bread 
and  cheese  and  added  some  apples  and  a  handful  of 
nuts  to  them. 

"  Come,  my  little  dears,"  she  cried,  "  put  these 
into  your  pockets  against  to-morrow." 

Then  turning  to  me — 

"  To-day  I  am  ruining  myself,"  added  she  ;  "  but 
we  must  all  have  our  Carnival." 

I  came  away  without  saying  a  word :  I  was  too 
much  affected. 

At  last  I  have  discovered  what  true  pleasure  is. 
After  having  seen  the  egotism  of  sensuality  and  of 
intellect  I  have  found  the  happy  self-sacrifice  of 
goodness.  Pierre,  M.  Antoine,  and  Mother  Denis 
had  each  kept  their  Carnival ;  but  for  the  two  first 
it  was  only  a  feast  for  the  senses  or  the  mind ;  while 
for  the  third  it  was  a  feast  for  the  heart. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS,  25 


CHAPTER  III. 

WHAT   WE    MAY    LEARN    BY    LOOKING    OUT    OF   WINDOW. 

March  3d. — A  poet  has  said  that  life  is  the  dream 
of  a  shadow ;  he  would  better  have  compared  it  to 
a  night  of  fever !  What  alternate  fits  of  restless- 
ness and  sleep !  w^hat  discomfort !  what  sudden 
starts  !  what  ever-returning  thirst !  what  a  chaos  of 
mournful  and  confused  fancies  I  We  can  neither 
sleep  nor  wake ;  we  seek  m  vain  for  repose,  and  we 
stop  short  on  the  brink  of  action.  Two-thirds  of 
human  existence  are  wasted  in  hesitation  and  the 
last  third  in  repenting. 

When  1  say  "  human  existence,"  I  mean  my  own  ! 
We  are  so  made  that  each  of  us  regards  himself  as 
the  mirror  of  the  community :  what  passes  in  our 
minds  infallibly  seems  to  us  a  history  of  the 
universe.  Every  man  is  like  the  drunkard  who 
reports  an  earthquake  because  he  feels  himself 
staggering. 

And  why  am  I  uncertain  and  restless — I,  a  poor 
day-laborer  in  the  world — who  fill  an  obscure  sta- 
tion in  a  corner  of  it  and  whose  work  it  avails  itself 
of  without  heeding  the  workman?  I  will  tell  you, 
my  unseen  friend,  for  whom  these  lines  are  written  ; 
my  unknown  brother,  on  whom  the  solitary  call  in 


26  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

sorrow ;  my  imaginary  confidant,  to  whom  all  mono- 
logues are  addressed  and  who  is  but  the  shadow  of 
our  own  conscience. 

A  great  event  has  happened  in  my  life  !  A  cross- 
road has  suddenly  opened  in  the  middle  of  the 
monotonous  way  along  which  I  was  traveling 
quietly  and  without  thinking  of  it.  Two  roads 
present  themselves,  and  I  must  choose  between 
them.  One  is  only  the  continuation  of  that  I  have 
followed  till  now ;  the  other  is  wider  and  exhibits 
wondrous  prospects.  On  the  first  there  is  nothing 
to  fear,  but  also  little  to  hope ;  on  the  other  great 
dangers  and  great  fortune.  In  a  word,  the  question 
is  whether  I  shall  give  up  the  humble  office  in 
which  I  thought  to  die  for  one  of  those  bold  spec- 
ulations in  which  chance  alone  is  banker !  Ever 
since  yesterday  I  have  consulted  with  myself  ;  I 
have  compared  the  two  and  I  remain  undecided. 

Where  shall  I  get  any  light — who  will  advise 
me? 

Sunday^  Uh. — See  the  sun  coming  out  from  the 
thicii  fogs  of  winter  ;  spring  announces  its  approach  ; 
a  soft  breeze  skims  over  the  roofs,  and  my  wall- 
flower begins  to  blow  again. 

We  are  near  that  sweet  season  of  fresh  green,  of 
which  the  poets  of  the  sixteenth  century  sang  with 
so  much  feeling: 

Now  the  gladsome  month  of  May 
All  things  newly  doth  array  ; 
Fairest  lady,  let  me  too 
In  thy  love  my  life  renew. 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  g^ 

The  chirping  of  the  sparrows  calls  me  :  they  claim 
the  crumbs  I  scatter  to  them  every  morning.  I  open 
my  window,  and  the  prospect  of  roofs  opens  out  be- 
fore me  in  all  its  splendor. 

He  who  has  only  lived  on  a  first  floor  has  no  idea 
of  the  picturesque  variety  of  such  a  view.  He  has 
never  contemplated  these  tile-colored  heights  which 
intersect  each  other ;  he  has  not  followed  with  his 
eyes  these  gutter-valleys,  where  the  fresh  verdure 
of  the  attic  gardens  waves,  the  deep  shadows  which 
evening  spreads  over  the  slated  slopes,  and  the 
sparkling  of  windows  which  the  setting  sun  has 
kindled  to  a  blaze  of  fire.  He  has  not  studied  the 
flora  of  these  Alps  of  civilization,  carpeted  by  lich- 
ens and  mosses ;  he  is  not  acquainted  with  the  thou- 
sand inhabitants  which  people  them,  from  the 
microscopic  insect  to  the  domestic  cat — that  Rey- 
nard of  the  roofs  who  is  always  on  the  prowl  or  in 
ambush  ;  he  has  not  witnessed  the  thousand  aspects 
of  a  clear  or  a  cloudy  sky  ;  nor  the  thousand  effects 
of  light,  which  make  these  upper  regions  a  theater 
with  ever-changing  scenes  !  How  many  times  have 
my  days  of  leisure"  passed  away  in  contemplating 
this  wonderful  sight;  in  discovering  its  darker  or 
brighter  episodes;  in  seeking,  in  short,  in  this  un- 
known world  for  the  impressions  of  travel  that 
Avealthy  tourists  look  for  lower  down  ! 

JVine  O'clock. — But  why,  then,  have  not  my  winged 
neighbors  picked  up  the  crumbs  I  have  scattered  for 
them  before  my  window?  I  see  them  fly  away, 
come  back,  perch  upon  the  ledges  of  the  windows, 


28  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

and  chirp  at  the  sight  of  the  feast  they  are  usually 
so  ready  to  devour !  It  is  not  my  presence  that 
frightens  them  ;  I  have  accustomed  them  to  eat  out 
of  my  hand.  Then  why  is  this  fearful  suspense  ? 
In  vain  I  look  around :  the  roof  is  clear,  the  win- 
dows near  are  closed.  I  crumble  the  bread  that 
remains  from  my  breakfast  to  attract  them  by  an 
ampler  feast.  Their  chirpings  increase,  they  bend 
down  their  heads,  the  boldest  approach  upon  the 
wing,  but  without  daring  to  alight. 

Come,  come,  my  sparrows  are  the  victims  of  one 
of  the  foolish  panics  which  make  the  funds  fall  at 
the  Bourse !  It  is  plain  that  birds  are  not  more 
reasonable  than  men ! 

With  this  reflection  I  was  about  to  shut  my  win- 
dow, when  all  of  a  sudden  I  perceived,  in  a  spot  of 
sunshine  on  my  right,  the  shadow  of  two  pricked- 
up  ears;  then  a  paw  advanced,  then  the  head 
of  a  tabby-cat  showed  itself  at  the  corner  of  the 
gutter.  The  cunning  fellow  was  lying  there 
in  wait,  hoping  the  crumbs  would  bring  him  some 
game. 

And  I  had  accused  my  guests  of  cowardice !  I 
was  so  sure  that  no  danger  could  menace  them  !  I 
thought  I  had  looked  well  everywhere !  I  had  only 
forgotten  the  corner  behind  me ! 

In  life,  as  on  the  roofs,  how  many  misfortunes 
come  from  having  forgotten  a  single  corner ! 

Ten  0^ clock. — I  cannot  leave  my  window;  the 
rain  and  the  cold  have  kept  it  shut  so  long  that  I 
must  reconnoiter  all  the  environs  to  be  able  to  take 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS,  29 

possession  of  them  again.  My  eyes  search  in  suc- 
cession all  the  points  of  the  jumbled  and  confused 
prospect,  passing  on  or  stopping  according  to  what 
they  light  upon. 

Ah\  see  the  windows  upon  which  they  formerly 
loved  to  rest;  they  are  those  of  two  unknown 
neighbors,  whose  different  habits  they  have  long 
remarked. 

One  is  a  poor  workwoman,  w^ho  rises  before  sun- 
rise, and  whose  profile  is  shadowed  upon  her  little 
muslin  window  curtain  far  into  the  evening ;  the 
other  is  a  young  lady  singer,  w^hose  vocal  flourishes 
sometimes  reach  my  attic  by  snatches.  When  their 
windows  are  open,  that  of  the  workwoman  discovers 
a  humble  but  decent  abode  ;  the  other,  an  elegantly 
furnished  room.  But  to-dav  a  crowd  of  trades- 
people  throng  the  latter  ;  they  take  down  the  silk 
hangings  and  carry  off  the  furniture,  and  I  now  re- 
member that  the  young  singer  passed  under  my 
window  this  morning  with  her  veil  down,  and  walk- 
ing with  the  hasty  step  of  one  who  suffers  some  in- 
w^ard  trouble.  Ah  !  I  guess  it  all.  Her  means  are 
exhausted  in  elegant  fancies,  or  have  been  taken 
away  by  some  unexpected  misfortune,  and  now"  she 
has  fallen  from  luxury  to  indigence.  While  the 
workwoman  manages  not  only  to  keep  her  little 
room,  but  also  to  furnish  it  with  decent  comfort  by 
her  steady  toil,  that  of  the  singer  is  become  the 
property  of  brokers.  The  one  sparkled  for  a  mo- 
ment on  the  w^ave  of  prosperity ;  the  other  sails 
slowly  but  safely  along  the  coast  of  a  humble  and 
laborious  industry. 


30  AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS, 

•  Alas !  is  there  not  here  a  lesson  for  us  all  ?  Is  it 
really  in  hazardous  experiments,  at  the  end  of  which 
we  shall  meet  with  wealth  or  ruin,  that  the  wise 
man  should  employ  his  years  of  strength  and  free- 
dom ?  Ought  he  to  consider  life  as  a  regular  em- 
ployment which  brings  its  daily  wages,  or  as  a  game 
in  which  the  future  is  determined  by  a  few  throws  ? 
Why  seek  the  risk  of  extreme  chances  ?  For  what 
end  hasten  to  riches  by  dangerous  roads  ?  Is  it 
really  certain  that  happiness  is  the  prize  of  brilliant 
successes,  rather  than  of  a  wisely  accepted  poverty  ? 
Ah  !  if  men  but  knew  in  what  a  small  dwelling  joy 
can  live,  and  how  little  it  costs  to  furnish  it! 

Twelve  O^doch. — I  have  been  walking  up  and 
down  my  attic  for  a  long  time,  with  my  arms  folded 
and  my  eyes  on  the  ground  !  My  doubts  increase, 
like  shadows  encroaching  more  and  more  on  some 
bright  space ;  my  fears  multiply ;  and  the  uncer- 
tainty becomes  every  moment  more  painful  to  me! 
It  is  necessary  for  me  to  decide  to-day,  and  before 
the  evening  I  I  hold  the  dice  of  my  future  fate  in 
mv  hands,  and  I  dare  not  throw  them. 

Three  0^ clock. — The  sky  has  become  cloudy,  and  a 
cold  wind  begins  to  blow  from  the  west ;  all  the 
windows  which  w^ere  opened  to  the  sunshine  of  a 
beautiful  day  are  shut  again.  Only  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street  the  lodger  on  the  last  story  has 
not  yet  left  his  balcony. 

One  knows  him  to  be  a  soldier  by  his  regular 
walk,  his  gray  mustaches,  and  the  ribbon  which 
decorates  his  button-hole.     Indeed,  one  migbt  have 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPnER  IN  PARIS.  31 

guessed  as  much  from  the  care  he  takes  of  the  little 
garden  which  is  the  ornament  of  his  balcony  in 
mid-air  ;  for  there  are  two  things  especially  loved 
by  all  old  soldiers — flowers  and  children.  They 
have  been  so  long  obliged  to  look  upon  the  earth  as 
a  field  of  battle,  and  so  long  cut  off  from  the  peace- 
ful pleasures  of  a  quiet  lot,  that  they  seem  to  begin 
life  at  an  age  when  others  end  it.  The  tastes  of 
their  early  years,  which  were  arrested  by  the  stern 
duties  of  war,  suddenly  break  out  again  with  their 
white  hairs,  and  are  like  the  savings  of  youth  which 
they  spend  again  in  old  age.  Besides,  they  have 
been  condemned  to  be  destroyers  for  so  long  that 
perhaps  they  feel  a  secret  pleasure  in  creating  and 
seeing  life  spring  up  again  :  the  beauty  of  weakness 
has  a  grace  and  an  attraction  the  more  for  those 
who  have  been  the  agents  of  unbending  force  ;  and 
the  watching  over  the  frail  germs  of  life  has  all  the 
charms  of  novelty  for  these  old  workmen  of  death. 

Therefore  the  cold  wind  has  not  driven  my  neigh- 
bor from  his  balcony.  He  is  digging  up  the  earth 
in  his  green  boxes  and  carefully  sowing  in  the  seeds 
of  the  scarlet  nasturtium,  convolvulus,  and  sweet 
pea.  Henceforth  he  will  come  every  day  to  watch 
for  their  first  sprouting,  to  protect  the  young  shoots 
from  weeds  or  insects,  to  arrange  the  strings  for  the 
tendrils  to  climb  by,  and  carefully  to  regulate  their 
supply  of  w^ater  and  heat ! 

How  much  labor  to  bring  in  the  desired  harvest ! 
For  that  how  many  times  shall  I  see  him  brave  cold 
or  heat,  wind  or  sun,  as  he  does  to-day !     But  then, 


32  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

in  the  hot  summer  days,  when  the  blinding  dust 
whirls  in  clouds  through  our  streets,  when  the  eye, 
dazzled  by  the  glare  of  white  stucco,  knows  not 
where  to  rest,  and  the  glowing  roofs  reflect  their 
heat  upon  us  to  burning,  the  old  soldier  will  sit  in 
his  arbor  and  perceive  nothing  but  green  leaves  and 
flowers  around  him,  and  the  breeze  will  come  cool 
and  fresh  to  him  through  these  perfumed  shades. 
His  assiduous  care  will  be  rewarded  at  last. 

We  must  sow  the  seeds  and  tend  the  growth  if 
we  would  enjoy  the  flower. 

Four  O'clock. — The  clouds  which  have  been  gather- 
ing in  the  horizon  for  a  long  time  are  becoming 
darker ;  it  thunders  loudly  and  the  rain  pours 
down  !  Those  who  are  caught  in  it  fly  in  every  di- 
rection, some  laughing  and  some  crying. 

I  always  find  particular  amusement  in  these 
helter-skelters  caused  by  a  sudden  storm.  It  seems 
as  if  each  one,  when  thus  taken  by  surprise,  loses 
the  factitious  character  the  world  or  habit  has  given 
him  and  appears  in  his  true  colors. 

See,  for  example,  that  big  man  with  deliberate 
step,  who  suddenly  forgets  his  indifference  made  to 
order  and  runs  like  a  school-boy  !  He  is  a  thrifty 
city  gentleman,  who,  with  all  his  fashionable  airs,  is 
afraid  to  spoil  his  hat. 

That  pretty  lady  yonder,  on  the  contrary,  whose 
looks  are  so  modest  and  whose  dress  is  so  elaborate, 
slackens  her  pace  with  the  increasing  storm.  She 
seems  to  find  pleasure  in  braving  it,  and  does  not 
think  of  her  velvet  cloak  spotted  by  the  hail !  She 
is  evidently  a  lioness  in  sheep's  clothing. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS  33 

Here,  a  young  man  who  was  passing  stops  to 
catch  some  of  the  hailstones  in  his  hand,  and  ex- 
amines them.  By  his  quick  and  business-like  walk 
just  now  you  would  have  taken  him  for  a  tax- 
gatherer  on  his  rounds,  when  he  is  a  young  philoso- 
pher, studying  the  effects  of  electricity.  And  those 
school-boys  who  leave  their  ranks  to  run  after  the 
sudden  gusts  of  a  March  whirlwind  ;  those  girls, 
just  now  so  demure,  and  who  now  fly  with  bursts  of 
laughter ;  those  national  guards,  who  quit  the  mar- 
tial attitude  of  their  days  of  duty  to  take  refuge 
under  a  porch !  The  storm  has  caused  all  these 
transformations. 

See,  it  increases !  The  hardiest  are  obliged  to 
seek  shelter.  I  see  every  one  rushing  toward  the 
shop  in  front  of  my  window,  which  a  bill  announces 
is  to  let.  It  is  for  the  fourth  time  within  a  few 
months.  A  year  ago  all  the  skill  of  the  joiner  and 
the  art  of  the  painter  were  employed  in  beautifying 
it,  but  their  works  are  already  destroyed  by  the 
leaving  of  so  many  tenants ;  the  cornices  of  the 
front  are  disfigured  by  mud  ;  the  arabesques  on  the 
doorway  are  spoiled  by  bills  posted  upon  them  to 
announce  the  sale  of  the  effects.  The  splendid  shop 
has  lost  some  of  its  embellishments  with  each 
change  of  the  tenant.  See  it  now  empty  and  left 
open  to  the  passers-by.  How  much  does  its  fate  re- 
semble that  of  so  many  who,  like  it,  only  change 
their  occupation  to  hasten  the  faster  to  ruin ! 

I  am  struck  b}^  this  last  reflection :  since  the 
morning  everything  seems  to  speak  to  me,  and  with 


34  AN^  ATTIC  PBlLOSOPHEn  IN  PARIS. 

the  same  warning  tone.  Everything  says  :  "  Take 
care!  be  content  with  your  happy,  though  humble, 
lot ;  happiness  can  only  be  retained  by  constancy ; 
do  not  forsake  your  old  patrons  for  the  protection 
of  those  who  are  unknown!" 

Are  they  the  outward  objects  which  speak  thus, 
or  does  the  warning  come  from  within  ?  Is  it  not 
I  myself  who  give  this  language  to  all  that  sur- 
rounds me  ?  The  world  is  but  an  instrument,  to 
which  we  give  sound  at  will.  But  what  does  it 
signify  if  it  teaches  us  wisdom  ?  The  low  voice 
which  speaks  in  our  breasts  is  always  a  friendly 
voice,  for  it  tells  us  what  we  are,  that  is  to  say, 
what  is,  our  capability.  Bad  conduct  results,  for 
the  most  part,  from  mistaking  our  calling.  There 
are  so  many  fools  and  knaves,  because  there  are  so 
few  men  who  know  themselves.  The  question  is 
not  to  discover  what  will  suit  us,  but  for  what  we 
are  suited ! 

What  should  I  do  in  the  midst  of  these  experi- 
enced financial  speculators  ?  I  am  a  poor  sparrow, 
born  among  the  housetops,  and  should  always  fear 
the  enemy  crouching  in  the  dark  corner;  I  am  a 
prudent  workman,  and  should  think  of  the  business 
of  my  neighbors  who  so  suddenly  disappeared :  I 
am  a  timid  observer,  and  should  call  to  mind  the 
flowers  so  slowly  raised  by  the  old  soldier,  or  the 
shop  brought  to  ruin  b}^  constant  change  of  masters. 
Away  from  me,  ye  banquets,  over  which  hangs  the 
sword  of  Damocles !  I  am  a  countrj^  mouse.  Give 
me  my  nuts  and  hollow  tree,  and  I  ask  nothing  be- 
sides— except  security. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  35 

And  why  this  insatiable  craving  for  ricnes  ? 
Does  a  man  drinic  more  when  he  drinks  from  a 
large  glass?  From  whence  comes  that  universal 
dread  of  mediocrity,  the  fruitful  mother  of  peace 
and  liberty?  Ah!  there  is  the  evil  which,  above 
every  other,  it  should  be  the  aim  of  both  public  and 
private  education  to  anticipate  I  If  that  were  got 
rid  of,  w^hat  treasons  would  be  spared,  what  base- 
ness avoided,  what  a  chain  of  excess  and  crime 
would  be  forever  broken  !  AVe  aw^ard  the  palm  to 
charity  and  to  self-sacrifice ;  but,  above  all,  let  us 
award  it  to  moderation,  for  it  is  the  great  social 
virtue.  Even  when  it  does  not  create  the  others,  it 
stands  instead  of  them. 

Six  O'clock. — I  have  written  a  letter  of  thanks  to 
the  promoters  of  the  new  speculation  and  have 
declined  their  offer.  This  decision  has  restored  my 
peace  of  mind.  I  stopped  singing,  like  the  cobbler, 
as  long  as  I  entertained  the  hope  of  riches :  it  is 
gone,  and  happiness  is  come  back ! 

O  beloved  and  gentle  Poverty  !  pardon  me  for 
having  for  a  moment  wished  to  fly  from  thee  as  I 
would  from  Want.  Stay  here  forever  with  thy 
charming  sisters,  Pit}",  Patience,  Sobriety,  and 
Solitude ;  be  ye  my  queens  and  my  instructors ; 
teach  me  the  stern  duties  of  life ;  remove  far  from 
my  abode  the  weakness  of  heart  and  giddiness  of 
head  which  follow  prosperity.  Holy  Poverty ! 
teach  me  to  endure  without  complaining,  to  impart 
without  D:rudo^ino^,  to  seek  the  end  of  life  hio^her 
than  in  pleasure,  further  off  than  in  power.     Thou 


36  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

givest  the  body  strength,  thou  makest  the  mind 
more  firm ;  and,  thanks  to  thee,  this  life,  to  which 
the  rich  attach  themselves  as  to  a  rock,  becomes  a 
bark  of  which  death  may  cut  the  cable  without 
awakening  all  our  fears.  Continue  to  sustain  me, 
O  thou  whom  Christ  hath  called  "  Blessed." 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  S"? 


CHAPTER  ly. 

LET   US    LOVE    ONE    ANOTHER. 

April  9th. — The  fine  evenings  are  come  back  ;  the 
trees  begin  to  put  forth  their  shoots ;  hyacinths, 
jonquils,  violets,  and  lilacs  perfume  the  baskets  of 
the  flower-Dfirls :  all  the  world  have  beo:un  their 
walks  again  on  the  quays  and  boulevards.  After 
dinner  I,  too,  descend  from  my  attic  to  breathe  the 
evening  air. 

It  is  the  hour  when  Paris  is  seen  in  all  its  beauty. 
During  the  day  the  plaster  fronts  of  the  houses 
weary  the  eye  by  their  monotonous  whiteness ; 
heavily  laden  carts  make  the  streets  shake  under 
their  huge  wheels;  the  eager  crowd,  taken  up  by 
the  one  fear  of  losing  a  moment  from  business, 
cross  and  jostle  one  another ;  the  aspect  of  the  city 
altogether  has  something  harsh,  restless,  and  flurried 
about  it.  But  as  soon  as  the  stars  appear  every- 
thing is  changed ;  the  glare  of  the  w^hite  houses  is 
quenched  in  the  gathering  shades ;  you  hear  no 
more  any  rolling  but  that  of  the  carriages  on  their 
w^ay  to  some  party  of  pleasure ;  you  see  only  the 
lounger  or  the  light-hearted  passing  by ;  work  has 
given  place  to  leisure.  ^N^ow  each  one  may  breathe 
after  the  fierce   race   through   the  business  of   the 


38  A2f'  ATTIC  PEILOSOPEER  IN  IRAKIS. 

day,  and  whatever  strength  remains  to  him  he  gives 
to  pleasure !  See  the  ball-rooms  lighted  up,  the 
theaters  open,  the  eating-shops  along  the  walks  set 
out  with  dainties,  and  the  twinkling  lanterns  of  the 
newspaper  criers.  Decidedly  Paris  has  laid  aside 
the  pen,  the  ruler,  and  the  apron ;  after  the  day 
spent  in  work,  it  must  have  the  evening  for  enjoy- 
ment ;  like  the  masters  of  Thebes,  it  has  put  off  all 
serious  matter  till  to-morrow. 

I  love  to  take  part  in  this  happy  hour ;  not  to 
mix  in  the  general  gayety,  but  to  contemplate  it. 
If  the  enjoyments  of  others  imbitter  jealous  minds, 
they  strengthen  the  humble  spirit ;  they  are  the 
beams  of  sunshine  which  open  the  two  beautiful 
flowers  called  "  trust"  and  '*  hope." 

Althouo^h  alone  in  the  midst  of  the  smilino:  multi- 
tude,  I  do  not  feel  m3^self  isolated  from  it,  for  its 
gayety  is  reflected  upon  me  :  it  is  my  own  kind,  my 
own  family,  who  are  enjoying  life,  and  I  take  a 
brother's  share  in  their  happiness.  We  are  all 
fellow-soldiers  in  this  earthl}^  battle,  and  what  does 
it  matter  on  whom  the  honors  of  the  victory  fall  ? 
If  Fortune  passes  by  without  seeing  us  and  pours 
her  favors  on  others,  let  us  console  ourselves,  like 
the  friend  of  Parmenio,  by  saying,  ''  Those,  too,  are 
Alexanders." 

While  making  these  reflections,  I  was  going  on  as 
chance  took  me.  I  crossed  from  one  pavement  to 
another,  I  retraced  my  steps,  I  stopped  before  the 
shops  or  to  read  the  hand-bills.  How  many  things 
there  are  to  learn  in  the  streets  of  Paris  !    What  a 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  39 

museum  it  is !  Unknown  fruits,  foreign  arms, 
furniture  of  old  times  or  other  lands,  animals  of  all 
climates,  statues  of  great  men,  costumes  of  distant 
nations !     It  is  the  world  seen  in  samples  ! 

Let  us  then  look  at  this  people,  whose  knowledge 
is  gained  from  the  shop  windows  and  the  trades- 
man's display  of  goods.  Nothing  has  been  taught 
them,  but  they  have  a  rude  notion  of  everything. 
They  have  seen  the  ananas  at  Chevet's,  a  palm  tree 
in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  sugar-canes  selling  on  the 
Pont-Neuf.  The  redskins  exhibited  in  the  Valen- 
tine Hall  have  taught  them  to  mimic  the  dance  of 
the  bison  and  to  smoke  the  calumet  of  peace  ;  they 
have  seen  Carter's  lions  fed ;  they  know  the  prin- 
cipal national  costumes  contained  in  Babin's  col- 
lection ;  Goupil's  display  of  prints  has  placed  the 
tiger-hunts  of  Africa  and  the  sittings  of  the  English 
Parliament  before  their  e3^es  ;  they  have  become  ac- 
quainted with  Queen  Victoria,  the  Emperor  of 
Austria,  and  Kossuth,  at  the  ofRce-door  of  the 
Illustrated  News.  We  can  certainly  instruct  them, 
but  not  astonish  them  ;  for  nothing  is  completely 
new  to  them.  You  may  take  the  Paris  ragamuffin 
through  the  five  quarters  of  the  world,  and  at  every 
wonder  with  which  you  think  to  surprise  hira,  he 
will  settle  the  matter  with  that  favorite  and  con- 
clusive answer  of  his  class — "I  know." 

But  this  variety  of  exhibitions,  which  makes 
Paris  the  fair  of  the  world,  does  not  merely  offer  a 
means  of  instruction  to  him  who  walks  through  it ; 
it  is  a  continual  spur  for  rousing  the  imagination,  a 


40  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAU18. 

first  step  of  the  ladder  always  set  up  before  us  in  a 
vision.  When  we  see  them,  how  many  voyages  do 
we  take  in  imagination,  what  adventures  do  we 
dream  of,  what  pictures  do  we  sketch  I  I  never  look 
at  that  shop  near  the  Chinese  baths,  with  its  tapes- 
try hangings  of  Florida  jessamine  and  filled  with 
magnolias,  without  seeing  the  forest  glades  of  the 
New  World,  described  by  the  author  of  "  Atala," 
opening  themselves  out  before  me. 

Then,  when  this  study  of  things  and  this  discourse 
of  reason  begin  to  tire  you,  look  around  you ! 
What  contrasts  of  figures  and  faces  you  see  in  the 
crowd  !  What  a  vast  field  for  the  exercise  of  medi- 
tation !  A  half -seen  glance,  or  a  few  words  caught 
as  the  speaker  passes  by,  open  a  thousand  vistas  to 
your  imagination.  You  wish  to  comprehend  what 
these  imperfect  disclosures  mean,  and,  as  the  anti- 
quary endeavors  to  decipher  the  mutilated  inscrip- 
tion on  some  old  monument,  you  build  up  a  history 
on  a  gesture  or  on  a  word  !  These  are  the  stirring 
sports  of  the  mind  which  finds  in  fiction  a  relief 
from  the  wearisome  dullness  of  the  actual. 

Alas!  as  I  was  just  now  passing  by  the  carriage 
entrance  of  a  great  house,  I  noticed  a  sad  subject 
for  one  of  these  histories.  A  man  was  sitting  in  the 
darkest  corner  with  his  head  bare,  and  holding  out 
his  hat  for  the  charity  of  those  who  passed.  His 
threadbare  coat  had  that  look  of  neatness  which 
marks  that  destitution  has  been  met  by  a  long  strug- 
gle. He  had  carefully  buttoned  it  up  to  hide  the 
want  of  a  shirt.     His  face   was  half-hid  under  his 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  41 

long  gi'ay  hair,  and  his  eyes  closed,  as  if  he  wished 
to  escape  the  sight  of  his  own  humiliation,  and  he 
remained  mute  and  motionless.  Those  who  passed 
him  took  no  notice  of  the  beggar,  who  sat  in  silence 
and  darkness !  They  had  been  so  lucky  as  to 
escape  complaints  and  importunities,  and  were  glad 
to  turn  away  their  eyes  too. 

All  at  once  the  great  gate  turned  on  its  hinges ; 
and  a  very  low  carriage,  lighted  with  silver  lamps 
and  drawn  by  two  black  horses,  came  slowly  out 
and  took  the  road  toward  the  Faubourg  St.  Germain. 
I  could  just  distinguish,  within,  the  sparkling  dia- 
monds and  the  flowers  of  a  ball-dress ;  the  glare  of 
the  lamps  passed  like  a  bloody  streak  over  the  pale 
face  of  the  beggar,  and  showed  his  look  as  his  eyes 
opened  and  followed  the  rich  man's  equipage  until 
it  disappeared  in  the  night. 

I  dropped  a  small  piece  of  money  into  the  hat  he 
was  holding  out  and  passed  on  quickly. 

I  had  just  fallen  unexpectedly  upon  the  two  sad- 
dest secrets  of  the  disease  which  troubles  the  age  we 
live  in  :  the  envious  hatred  of  him  who  suffers  want, 
and  the  selfish  forgetfulness  of  him  who  lives  in 
affluence. 

All  the  enjoyment  of  my  walk  was  gone ;  I  left 
off  looking  about  me  and  retired  into  my  own 
heart.  The  animated  and  movino^  sio-ht  in  the 
streets  gave  place  to  inward  meditation  upon  all  the 
painful  problems  which  have  been  written  for  the 
last  four  thousand  years  at  the  bottom  of  each 
human  struggle,  but  which  are  propounded  more 
clearly  than  ever  in  our  days. 


42  -^^  A  TTia  PEILOSOPEEM  IN  PA  HIS. 

I  pondered  on  the  uselessness  of  so  many  con- 
tests in  which  defeat  and  victory  only  displace  each 
other  by  turns,  and  on  the  mistaken  zealots  who 
have  repeated  from  generation  to  generation  the 
bloody  history  of  Cain  and  Abel ;  and,  saddened 
with  these  mournful  reflections,  I  walked  on  as 
chance  took  me,  until  the  silence  all  around  insensi- 
bly drew  me  out  from  my  own  thoughts. 

I  had  reached  one  of  the  remote  streets,  in  which 
those  who  would  live  in  comfort  and  without  osten- 
tation, and  who  love  serious  reflection,  delight  to 
find  a  home.  There  were  no  shops  along  the  dimly 
lit  pavement ;  one  heard  no  sounds  but  of  the  dis- 
tant carriages  and  of  the  steps  of  some  of  the  in- 
habitants returning  quietly  home. 

I  instantly  recognized  the  street,  though  I  had 
only  been  there  once  before. 

That  was  two  years  ago.  I  was  walking  at  the 
time  by  the  side  of  the  Seine,  to  which  the  lights  on 
the  quays  and  bridges  gave  the  aspect  of  a  lake 
surrounded  by  a  garland  of  stars ;  and  I  had  reached 
the  Louvre,  when  I  was  stopped  b}^  a  crowd  col- 
lected near  the  parapet ;  they  had  gathered  round 
a  child  of  about  six,  who  was  crying,  and  I  asked 
the  cause  of  his  tears. 

'  "  It  seems  that  he  was  sent  to  walk  in  the 
Tuileries,"  said  a  mason,  who  was  returning  from 
his  work  with  his  trowel  in  his  hand  ;  "  the  servant 
who  took  care  of  him  met  with  some  friends  there, 
and  told  the  child  to  wait  for  him  while  he  went  to 
get  a  drink ;  but   I  suppose   the  drink  made   him 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  43 

more  thirsty,  for  he  has  not  come  back,  and  the 
child  cannot  find  his  way  home." 

"  Why  do  they  not  ask  him  his  name  and  where 
he  lives  ?" 

"  They  have  been  doing  it  for  the  last  hour ; 
but  all  he  can  say  is  that  he  is  called  Charles  and 
that  his  father  is  M.  Duval — there  are  twelve  hun- 
dred Duvals  in  Paris." 

"Then  he  does  not  know  in  what  part  of  the 
town  he  lives?" 

"  I  should  think  not,  indeed  !  Don't  3^ou  see  that 
he  is  a  gentleman's  child  ?  He  has  never  gone  out 
except  in  a  carriage  or  with  a  servant ;  he  does  not 
know  what  to  do  b}^  himself." 

Here  the  mason  was  interrupted  by  some  of  the 
voices  rising  above  the  others. 

"  We  cannot  leave  him  in  the  street,"  said   some. 

"  The  child-stealers  would  carry  him  off,"  con- 
tinued others. 

"  We  must  take  him  to  the  overseer." 

*'  Or  to  the  police-office." 

"  That's  the  thing.     Come,  little  one  !" 

But  the  child,  frightened  by  these  suggestions  of 
danger  and  at  the  names  of  police  and  overseer, 
cried  louder  and  drew  black  toward  the  parapet. 
In  vain  they  tried  to  persuade  him  ;  his  fears  made 
him  resist  the  more,  and  the  most  eao^er  beo^an  to 
get  weary,  when  the  voice  of  a  little  boy  was  heard 
through  the  confusion. 

"I  know^  him  well — I  do,"  said  he,  looking  at 
the  lost  child ;  "  he  belongs  to  our  part  of  the 
town." 


44  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"  What  part  is  it  ?" 

"  Yonder,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Boulevards — 
Rue  des  Magasins." 
,   "And  you  have  seen  him  before?" 

"  Yes,  yes  !  he  belongs  to  the  great  house  at  the 
end  of  the  street,  where  there  is  an  iron  gate  with, 
gilt  points." 

The  child  quickly  raised  his  head  and  stopped 
crying.  The  little  boy  answered  all  the  questions 
that  were  put  to  him,  and  gave  such  details  as  left 
no  room  for  doubt.  The  other  child  understood 
him,  for  he  went  up  to  him  as  if  to  put  himself 
under  his  protection. 

"Then  you  can  take  him  to  his  parents ?"  asked 
the  mason,  who  had  listened  with  real  interest  to 
the  little  boy's  account. 

"  I  don't  care  if  I  do,"  replied  he ;  "  it's  the  way 
I'm  going." 

"  Then  you  will  take  charge  of  him  ?" 

"  He  has  only  to  come  with  me." 

And,  taking  up  the  basket  he  had  put  down  on 
the  pavement,  he  set  off  toward  the  postern  gate  of 
the  Louvre. 

The  lost  child  followed  him. 

"  I  hope  he  will  take  him  right,"  said  I  when  I 
saw  them  go  away. 

"  Never  fear,"  replied  the  mason  ;  "  the  little  one 
in  the  blouse  is  the  same  age  as  the  other ;  but,  as 
the  saying  is,  '  he  knows  black  from  white ;' 
poverty,  you  see,  is  a  famous  schoolmistress  !" 

The  crowd  dispersed.     For  my  part,  I  went  to- 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  45 

ward  the  Louvre  :  the  thought  came  into  my  head 
to  follow  the  two  children,  so  as  to  guard  against 
any  mistake. 

I  was  not  long  in  overtaking  them ;  they  were  walk- 
ing side  by  side,  talking,  and  already  quite  familiar 
with  one  another.  The  contrast  in  their  dress  then 
struck  me.  Little  Duval  wore  one  of  those  fanciful 
children's  dresses  which  are  expensive  as  well  as  in 
good  taste ;  his  coat  was  skillfully  fitted  to  his 
figure,  his  trousers  came  down  in  plaits  from  his 
waist  to  his  boots  of  polished  leather  with  mother- 
of-pearl  buttons,  and  his  ringlets  were  half  hid  by  a 
velvet  cap.  The  appearance  of  his  guide,  on  the 
contrary,  was  that  of  the  class  who  dwell  on  the 
extreme  borders  of  poverty,  but  who  there  maintain 
their  ground  with  no  surrender.  His  old  blouse, 
patched  with  pieces  of  different  shades,  indicated  the 
perseverance  of  an  industrious  mother  struggling 
against  the  wear  and  tear  of  time ;  his  trousers  were 
become  too  short,  and  showed  his  stockings  darned 
over  and  over  again  ;  and  it  was  evident  that  his 
shoes  were  not  made  for  him. 

The  countenances  of  the  two  children  were  not 
less  different  than  their  dresses.  That  of  the  first 
was  delicate  and  refined  ;  his  clear  blue  eye,  his  fair 
skin,  and  his  smiling  mouth  gave  him  a  charming 
look  of  innocence  and  happiness.  The  features  of 
the  other,  on  the  contrary,  had  something  rough  in 
them ;  his  eye  was  quick  and  lively,  his  complexion 
dark,  his  smile  less  merry  than  shrewd  ;  all  showed 
a  mind  sharpened  by  too  early  experience  ;  he  bold- 


46  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS, 

ly  walked  through  the  middle  of  the  streets 
thronged  by  carriages,  and  followed  their  count- 
less turnings  without  hesitation. 

I  found,  on  asking  him,  that  every  day  he  carried 
dinner  to  his  father,  who  was  then  working  on  the 
left  bank  of  the  Seine,  and  this  responsible  duty  had 
made  him  careful  and  prudent.  He  had  learned 
those  hard  but  forcible  lessons  of  necessity  which 
nothing  can  equal  or  supply  the  place  of.  Unfortu- 
nately the  wants  of  his  poor  family  had  kept  him 
from  school,  and  he  seemed  to  feel  the  loss,  for  he 
often  stopped  before  the  print  shops  and  asked  his 
companion  to  read  him  the  names  of  the  engravine^s. 
In  this  way  we  reached  the  Boulevard  Bonne  Nou- 
velle,  which  the  little  wanderer  seemed  to  know 
again  ;  notwithstanding  his  fatigue,  he  hurried  on  ; 
he  was  agitated  by  mixed  feelings ;  at  the  sight  of 
his  house  he  uttered  a  cry  and  ran  toward  the  iron 
gate  w^ith  the  gilt  points ;  a  lady  who  was  standing 
at  the  entrance  received  him  in  her  arms,  and  from 
the  exclamations  of  joy  and  the  sound  of  kisses  I 
soon  perceived  she  was  his  mother, 

Not  seeing  either  the  servant  or  the  child  return, 
she  had  sent  in  search  of  them  in  every  direction 
and  was  waiting  for  them  in  intense  anxiety. 

I  explained  to  her  in  a  few  words  what  had  hap- 
pened. She  thanked  me  warmly,  and  looked  round 
for  the  little  boy  who  had  recognized  and  brought 
back  her  son,  but  while  we  were  talking  he  had  dis- 
appeared. 

It  was  for  the  first  time  since  then   that   I   had 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  47 

come  into  this  part  of  Paris.  Did  the  mother  con- 
tinue grateful  ?  Had  the  children  met  again,  and 
had  the  happy  chance  of  their  first  meeting  lowered 
between  them  that  barrier  which  may  mark  the 
different  ranks  of  men,  but  should  not  divide  them? 

While  putting  these  questions  to  myself,  I  slack- 
ened my  pace  and  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  great  gate, 
which  I  just  perceived.  All  at  once  I  sa\v  it  open 
and  two  children  appeared  at  the  entrance.  Al- 
though much  grown,  I  recognized  them  at  first  sight ; 
they  were  the  child  who  was  found  near  the  parapet 
of  the  Louvre  and  his  young  guide.  But  the  dress 
of  the  latter  was  greatly  changed :  his  blouse  of 
gray  cloth  was  neat  and  even  spruce,  and  was 
fastened  round  the  waist  by  a  polished  leather  belt ; 
he  wore  strong  shoes,  but  made  to  his  feet,  and  had 
on  a  new  cloth  cap. 

Just  at  the  moment  I  saw  him  he  held  in  his  two 
hands  an  enormous  bunch  of  lilacs,  to  which  his 
companion  was  trying  to  add  narcissuses  and  prim- 
roses ;  the  two  children  laughed  and  parted  with  a 
friendly  good-by.  M.  Duval's  son  did  not  go  in 
till  he  had  seen  the  other  turn  the  corner  of  the 
street. 

Then  I  accosted  the  latter  and  reminded  him  of 
our  former  meeting.  He  looked  at  me  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  seemed  to  recollect  me. 

"Forgive  me  if  I  do  not  make  you  a  bow,"  said 
he  merrily,  "  but  I  want  both  my  hands  for  the 
nosegay  M.  Charles  has  given  me." 

"  You  are,  then,  become  great  friends  ?"  said  I. 


48  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"  Oh  !  I  should  think  so,"  said  the  child ;  "  and 
now  my  father  is  rich  too !" 

"  How's  that  ?" 

"M.  Duval  lent  him  a  little  money  ;  he  has  taken 
a  shop,  where  he  works  on  his  own  account ;  and  as 
for  me,  I  go  to  school." 

"  Yes,"  replied  I,  remarking  for  the  first  time  the 
cross  which  decorated  his  little  coat ;  "  and  I  see 
that  you  are  head  boy  !" 

"  M.  Charles  helps  me  to  learn,  and  so  I  am  come 
to  be  the  first  in  the  class." 

"  Are  you  now  going  to  your  lessons  ?" 

"  Yes,  and  he  has  given  me  some  lilacs,  for  he  has 
a  garden  where  we  play  together  and  where  my 
mother  can  always  have  flowers." 

"  Then  it  is  the  same  as  if  it  were  partly  your 
own." 

"  So  it  is !  Ah !  they  are  good  neighbors  indeed ! 
But  here  I  am  ;  good-by,  sir." 

He  nodded  to  me  with  a  smile  and  disappeared. 

1  went  on  with  my  walk,  still  pensive,  but  with  a 
feeling  of  relief.  If  I  had  elsewhere  witnessed  the 
painful  contrast  between  affluence  and  want,  here  I 
had  found  the  true  union  of  riches  and  poverty. 
Hearty  good-will  had  smoothed  down  the  more 
rugged  inequalities  on  both  sides  and  had  opened  a 
road  of  true  neighborhood  and  fellowship  between  the 
humble  workshop  and  the  stately  mansion.  Instead 
of  hearkening  to  the  voice  of  interest  they  had  both 
listened  to  that  of  self-sacrifice,  and  there  was  no 
place  left  for  contempt  or  envy.    Thus,  instead  of 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  49 

the  beggar  in  rags  that  I  had  seen  at  the  other  door 
cursing  the  rich  man,  I  had  found  here  the  happy 
child  of  the  laborer  loaded  with  flowers  and  blessing 
him  !  The  problem,  so  difficult  and  so  dangerous  to 
examine  into  with  no  regard  but  for  the  rights  of 
it,  I  had  just  seen  solved  by  love. 


50  AJU  ATTIG  PHIL080PHEB  IN  PARIS, 


CHAPTER  Y. 

COMPENSATION. 

Sunday,  May  '^Ith. — Capital  cities  have  one  thing 
peculiar  to  them  :  their  days  of  rest  seem  to  be  the 
signal  for  a  general  dispersion  and  flight.  Like 
birds  that  are  just  restored  to  liberty,  the  people 
come  out  of  their  stone  cages  and  joyfully  fly 
toward  the  country.  It  is  who  shall  lind  a  green 
hillock  for  a  seat  or  the  shade  of  a  wood  for  a 
shelter;  they  gather  May  flowers,  they  runabout 
the  fields ;  the  town  is  forgotten  until  the  evening, 
when  they  return  with  sprigs  of  blooming  hawthorn 
in  their  hats,  and  their  hearts  gladdened  by  pleasant 
thoughts  and  recollections  of  the  past  day ;  the 
next  day  they  return  again  to  their  harness  and  to 
work. 

These  rural  adventures  are  most  remarkable  at 
Paris.  When  the  fine  weather  comes,  clerks,  shop- 
keepers, and  workingmen  look  forward  impatiently 
for  the  Sunday  as  the  day  for  trying  a  few  hours 
of  this  pastoral  life  ;  they  walk  through  six  miles  of 
grocers'  shops  and  public-houses  in  the  faubourgs  in 
the  sole  hope  of  finding  a  real  turnip-field.  The 
father  of  a  family  begins  the  practical  education  of 
his  son  by  showing  him  wheat  which  has  not  taken 


AN  A  Tl  IG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  61 

the  form  of  a  loaf  and  cabbage  "  in  its  wild  state." 
Heaven  only  knows  the  encounters,  the  discoveries, 
the  adventures  that  are  met  with  !  What  Parisian 
has  not  had  his  Odyssey  in  an  excursion  through  the 
suburbs,  and  would  not  be  able  to  write  a  companion 
to  the  famous  "'  Travels  by  Land  and  by  Sea  from 
Paris  to  St.  Cloud  ?" 

We  do  not  now  speak  of  that  floating  population 
from  all  parts,  for  whom  our  French  Babylon  is  the 
caravansary  of  Europe ;  a  phalanx  of  thinkers, 
artists,  men  of  business,  and  travelers,  who,  like 
Homer's  liero,  have  arrived  in  their  intellectual 
country  after  having  seen  "  many  peoples  and 
cities;"  but  of  the  settled  Parisian,  wdio  keeps  his 
appointed  place  and  lives  on  his  own  floor  like  the 
oyster  on  his  rock,  a  curious  vestige  of  the  credulit}^, 
the  slowness,  and  the  simplicity  of  bygone  ages. 

For  one  of  the  singularities  of  Paris  is  that  it 
unites  twenty  populations  completely  different  in 
character  and  manners.  By  the  side  of  the  gypsies 
of  commerce  and  of  art,  who  w^ander  through  all 
the  several  stages  of  fortune  or  fancy,  live  a  quiet 
race  of  people  with  an  independence,  or  with 
regular  w^ork,  whose  existence  resembles  the  dial  of 
a  clock,  on  which  the  same  hand  points  by  turns  to 
the  same  hours.  H'  no  other  citv  can  show  more 
brilliant  and  more  stirring  forms  of  life,  no  other 
contains  more  obscure  and  more  tranquil  ones. 
Great  cities  are  like  the  sea  :  storms  only  agitate 
the  surface ;  if  you  go  to  the  bottom,  you  find  a 
region  inaccessible  to  the  tumult  and  the  noise. 


52  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

For  my  part,  I  have  settled  on  the  verge  of  this 
region,  but  do  not  actually  live  in  it.  I  am  removed 
from  the  turmoil  of  the  world  and  live  in  the 
shelter  of  solitude,  but  without  being  able  to  dis- 
connect my  thoughts  from  the  struggle  going  on. 
I  follow  at  a  distance  all  its  events  of  happiness  or 
grief;  I  join  the  feasts  and  the  funerals;  for  how 
can  he  who  looks  on  and  knows  what  passes  do 
other  than  take  part?  Ignorance  alone  can  keep 
us  strangers  to  the  life  around  us  :  selfishness  itself 
will  not  suffice  for  that. 

These  reflections  I  made  to  myself  in  my  attic, 
in  the  intervals  of  the  various  "  household  works" 
to  which  a  bachelor  is  forced  when  he  has  no  other 
servant  than  his  own  ready  will.  While  I  was 
pursuing  my  deductions  I  had  blacked  my  boots, 
brushed  my  coat,  and  tied  my  cravat :  I  had  at  last 
arrived  at  the  important  moment  when  we  pronounce 
complacently  that  all  is  finished,  and  that  well. 

A  grand  resolve  had  just  decided  me  to  depart 
from  my  usual  habits.  The  evening  before  I  had 
seen  by  the  advertisements  that  the  next  day  was  a 
holiday  at  Sevres,  and  that  the  china  manufactory 
would  be  open  to  the  public.  I  was  tempted  by  the 
beauty  of  the  morning  and  suddenly  decided  to  go 
there. 

On  my  arrival  at  the  station  on  the  left  bank  I 
noticed  the  crowd  hurrying  on  in  the  fear  of  being 
late.  Railroads,  besides  many  other  advantages, 
will  have  that  of  teaching  the  French  punctuality. 
They  will  submit  to  the  clock  when  they  are  con- 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  53 

vinced  that  it  is  their  master  ;  they  will  learn  to 
wait  when  they  find  they  will  not  be  waited  for. 
Social  virtues  are  in  a  great  degree  good  habits. 
How  many  great  qualities  are  grafted  into  nations 
by  their  geographical  position,  by  political  necessity, 
and  by  institutions !  Avarice  was  destroyed  for  a 
time  among  the  Lacedaemonians  by  the  creation  of 
an  iron  coinage  too  heavy  and  too  bulky  to  be  con- 
veniently hoarded. 

I  found  myself  in  a  carriage  with  two  middle- 
aged  sisters  belong  to  the  domestic  and  retired  class 
of  Parisians  I  have  spoken  of  above.  A  few  civil- 
ities were  sufficient  to  gain  me  their  confidence,  and 
after  some  minutes  I  was  acquainted  with  their 
whole  history. 

They  were  two  poor  women,  left  orphans  at 
fifteen,  and  had  lived  ever  since,  as  those  who  work 
for  their  livelihood  must  live,  b}^  economy  and 
privation.  For  the  last  twenty  or  thirty  years  they 
had  worked  in  jewelry  in  the  same  house;  they  had 
seen  ten  masters  succeed  one  another  and  make 
their  fortunes  in  it,  without  any  change  in  their 
own  lot.  They  had  always  lived  in  the  same  room, 
at  the  end  of  one  of  the  passages  in  the  Itue  St. 
Denis,  where  the  air  and  the  sun  are  unkuown„ 
They  began  their  work  before  daylight,  went  on 
with  it  till  after  nightfall,  and  saw  year  succeed  to 
year  without  their  lives  being  marked  by  any  other 
events  than  the  Sunday  service,  a  walk,  or  an  ill- 
ness. 

The  younger  of  these  worthy  workwomen  was 


54  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

forty,  and  obeyed  her  sister  as  she  did  when  a  child. 
The  elder  looked  after  her,  took  care  of  her,  and 
scolded  her  with  a  mother's  tenderness.  At  first  it 
was  amusing  ;  afterward  one  could  not  help  seeing 
something  affecting  in  these  two  gray-haired  chil- 
dren, one  unable  to  leave  off  the  habit  of  obeying, 
the  other  that  of  protecting. 

And  it  was  not  in  that  alone  that  my  two  com- 
panions seemed  younger  than  their  years ;  they 
knew  so  little  that  their  wonder  never  ceased.  We 
had  hardly  arrived  at  Clamart  before  they  involun- 
tarily exclaimed,  like  the  king  in  the  children's 
game,  that  "  they  did  not  think  the  world  was  so 
great !" 

It  was  the  first  time  they  had  trusted  themselves 
on  a  railroad,  and  it  was  amusing  to  see  their  sud- 
den shocks,  their  alarms,  and  their  courageous  de- 
terminations:  everything  was  a  marvel  to  them! 
They  had  remains  of  youth  within  them,  which 
made  them  sensible  to  things  which  usually  only 
strike  us  in  childhood.  Poor  creatures !  they  had 
still  the  feelirigs  of  another  age,  though  they  had 
lost  its  charms. 

But  was  there  not  something  holy  in  this  sim- 
plicity, which  had  been  preserved  to  them  by  ab- 
stinence from  all  the  joys  of  life  ?  Ah  !  accursed 
be  he  who  first  had  the  bad  courage  to  attach  ridi- 
cule to  that  name  of  Old  Maid,  which  recalls  so 
many  images  of  grievous  deception,  of  dreariness, 
and  of  abandonment !  Accursed  be  he  who  can  find 
a  subject  for  sarcasm  in  involuntary  misfortune 
and  who  can  crown  gray  hairs  with  thorns ! 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  55 

The  two  sisters  were  called  Frances  and  Mad- 
eleine. This  day's  journey  was  a  feat  of  courage 
without  example  in  their  lives.  The  fever  of  the 
times  had  infected  them  unawares.  Yesterday 
Madeleine  had  suddenly  proposed  the  idea  of  the 
expedition,  and  Frances  had  accepted  it  immedi- 
ately. Perhaps  it  w^ould  have  been  better  not  to 
have  yielded  to  the  temptation  offered  by  her 
young  sister  ;  but  "  we  have  our  follies  at  all  ages," 
as  the  prudent  Frances  philosophically  remarked. 
As  for  Madeleine,  there  are  no  regrets  or  doubts  for 
her  ;  she  is  the  life-guardsman  of  the  establishment. 

"  We  really  must  amuse  ourselves,"  said  she  ;  "'  we 
do  but  live  once." 

And  the  elder  sister  smiled  at  this  Epicurean 
maxim.  It  was  evident  that  the  fever  of  independ- 
ence was  at  its  crisis  in  both  of  them. 

And  in  truth  it  would  have  been  a  great  pity  if 
any  scruple  had  interfered  with  their  happiness,  it 
was  so  frank  and  genial !  The  sight  of  the  trees, 
which  seemed  to  fly  on  both  sides  of  the  road, 
caused  them  unceasing  admiration.  The  meeting  a 
train  passing  in  the  contrary  direction,  with  the 
noise  and  rapidity  of  a  thunderbolt,  made  them  shut 
their  eyes  and  utter  a  cry  ;  but  it  had  already  dis- 
appeared !  They  look  round,  take  courage  again, 
and  express  themselves  full  of  astonishment  at  the 
marvel. 

Madeleine  declares  that  such  a  sight  is  worth  the 
expense  of  the  journey,  and  Frances  would  have 
agreed  with  her  if  she  had  not  recollected,  with 


56  ^^  ATTIG  PHtLOSOPEER  IN  PARIS. 

some  little  alarm,  the  deficit  which  such  an  expense 
must  make  in  their  budget.  The  3  francs  spent 
upon  this  single  expedition  were  the  savings  of  a 
whole  week  of  work.  Thus  the  joy  of  the  elder  of 
the  two  sisters  was  mixed  with  remorse  ;  the  prodi- 
gal child  now  and  then  turned  back  its  eyes  toward 
the  back  street  of  St.  Denis. 

But  the  motion  and  the  succession  of  objects  dis- 
tract her.  See  the  bridge  of  the  Yal  surrounded  by 
its  lovely  landscape  :  on  the  right,  Paris  with  its 
grand  monuments,  which  rise  through  the  fog  or 
sparkle  in  the  sun  ;  on  the  left,  Meudon,  with  its 
villas,  its  w^oods,  its  vines,  and  its  royal  castle  !  The 
two  workwomen  look  from  one  window  to  the  other 
with  exclamations  of  delight.  One  fellow-passen- 
ger laughs  at  their  childish  wonder  ;  but  to  myself 
it  is  very  touching,  for  I  see  in  it  the  sign  of  a  long 
and  monotonous  seclusion  :  they  are  the  prisoners 
of  work  who  have  recovered  liberty  and  fresh  air 
for  a  few"  hours. 

At  last  the  train  stops  and  we  get  out.  I  show 
the  two  sisters  the  path  that  leads  to  Sevres,  be- 
tween the  railway  and  the  gardens,  and  they  go  on 
before,  while  I  inquire  about  the  time  of  returning. 

I  soon  join  them  again  at  the  next  station,  where 
they  have  stopped  at  the  little  garden  belonging  to 
the  gatekeeper ;  both  are  already  in  deep  conver- 
sation with  him  while  he  digs  his  garden  borders 
and  marks  out  the  places  for  flower-seeds.  He  in- 
forms them  that  it  is  the  time  for  hoeing  out  weeds, 
for  making  grafts  and  layers,  for   sowing  annuals, 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  57 

and  for  destroying  the  insects  on  the  rose-trees. 
Madeleine  has  on  the  sill  of  her  window  two  wooden 
boxes  in  which,  for  want  of  air  and  sun,  she  has 
never  been  able  to  make  anything  grow  but  mus- 
tard and  cress ;  but  she  persuades  herself  that, 
thanks  to  this  information,  all  other  plants  may 
henceforth  thrive  in  them.  At  last  the  gatekeeper, 
Avho  is  sowing  a  border  with  mignonette,  gives  her 
the  rest  of  the  seeds  which  he  does  not  want,  and 
the  old  maid  goes  off  delighted  and  begins  to  act 
over  again  the  dream  of  Perette  and  her  can  of 
milk  with  these  flowers  of  her  imagination. 

On  reaching  the  grove  of  acacias,  where  the  fair 
was  going  on,  I  lost  sight  of  the  two  sisters.  I  went 
alone  among  the  sights:  there  were  lotteries  going 
on,  mountebank  shows,  places  for  eating  and  drink- 
ing, and  for  shooting  with  the  cross-bow.  I  have 
always  been  struck  by  the  spirit  of  these  out-of-door 
festivities.  In  drawing-room  entertainments  peo- 
ple are  cold,  grave,  often  listless,  and  most  of  those 
who  go  there  are  brought  together  by  habit  or  the 
obligations  of  society  ;  in  the  country  assemblies, 
on  the  contrary,  you  only  find  those  who  are  at- 
tracted by  the  hope  of  enjoyment.  There,  it  is  a 
forced  conscription ;  here,  they  are  volunteers  for 
gayety  !  Then,  how  easily  the}''  are  pleased  !  How 
far  this  crowd  of  people  is  yet  from  knowing  that 
to  be  pleased  with  nothing  and  to  look  down  on 
everything  is  the  height  of  fashion  and  good  taste ! 
Doubtless  their  amusements  are  often  coarse ;  ele- 
gance and  refinement  are  wanting  in  them ;  but  at 


58  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

least  they  have  heartiness.  Oh  that  the  hearty  en- 
joyments of  these  merry-makings  could  be  retained 
in  union  with  less  vulgar  feeling !  Formerly  reli- 
gion stamped  its  holy  character  on  the  celebration  of 
country  festivals  and  purified  the  pleasures  with- 
out depriving  them  of  their  simplicity. 

The  hour  arrives  at  which  the  doors  of  the  porce- 
lain manufactory  and  the  museum  of  pottery  are 
open  to  the  public.  I  meet  Frances  and  Madeleine 
again  in  the  first  room.  Frightened  at  finding 
themselves  in  the  midst  of  such  regal  magnificence, 
they  hardly  dare  walk  ;  they  speak  in  a  low  tone,  as 
if  they  were  in  a  church. 

"  We  are  in  the  king's  house,"  said  the  eldest 
sister,  forgetting  that  there  is  no  longer  a  king  in 
France. 

I  encourage  them,  to  go  on ;  I  w^alk  first  and  they 
make  up  their  minds  to  follow  me. 

What  wonders  are  brought  together  in  this  col- 
lection !  Here  v^e  see  clay  molded  into  every  shape, 
tinted  with  every  color,  and  combined  with  every 
sort  of  substance ! 

Earth  and  wood  are  the  first  substances  worked 
upon  by  man,  and  seem  more  particularly  meant 
for  his  use.  They,  like  the  domestic  animals,  are 
the  essential  accessories  of  his  life  ;  therefore  there 
must  be  a  more  intimate  connection  between  them 
and  us.  Stone  and  metals  require  long  prepara- 
tions ;  they  resist  our  first  efforts,  and  belong  less  to 
the  individual  than  to  communities.  Earth  and 
wood  are,  on  the  contrary,  the  principal  instruments 


AN  ATTIC  PUILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  59 

of  the  isolated  being  who  must  feed  and  shelter 
himself. 

This,  doubtless,  makes  me  feel  so  much  interested 
in  the  collection  I  am  examining.  These  cups,  so 
roughly  modeled  by  the  savage,  admit  me  to  a 
knowledge  of  some  of  his  habits  ;  these  elegant  yet 
incorrectly  formed  vases  of  the  Indian  tell  me  of  a 
declining  intelligence,  in  which  still  glimmers  the 
twilight  of  what  w^as  once  bright  sunshine;  these 
jars,  loaded  with  arabesques,  show  the  fancy  of  the 
Arab  rudely  and  ignorantly  copied  by  the  Spaniard! 
We  find  here  tlie  stamp  of  every  race,  every 
country,  and  every  age. 

My  companions  seemed  little  interested  in  these 
historical  associations ;  they  looked  at  all  with  that 
credulous  admiration  which  leaves  no  room  for 
examination  or  discussion.  Madeleine  read  the 
name  written  under  every  piece  of  workmanship, 
and  her  sister  answered  with  an  exclamation  of 
wonder. 

In  this  way  we  reached  a  little  court-yard,  where 
they  had  thrown  away  the  fragments  of  some 
broken  china.  Frances  perceived  a  colored  saucer 
almost  whole,  of  which  she  took  possession  as  a  rec- 
ord of  the  visit  she  was  making ;  henceforth  she 
would  have  a  specimen  of  the  Sevres  china,  "  which 
is  only  made  for  kings !"  I  would  not  undeceive 
her  by  telling  her  that  the  products  of  the  manu- 
factory are  sold  all  over  the  world,  and  that  her 
saucer,  before  it  was  cracked,  was  the  same  as  those 
that  are  bought   at  the  shops  for  sixpence !     Why 


60  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

should  I  destroy  the  illusions  of  her  humble  exist- 
ence ?  Are  we  to  break  down  the  hedge-flowers 
which  perfume  our  paths?  Things  are  oftenest 
nothing  in  themselves ;  the  thoughts  we  attach  to 
them  alone  give  them  value.  To  rectify  innocent 
mistakes  in  order  to  recover  some  useless  reality 
is  to  be  like  those  learned  men  who  will  see  nothing 
in  a  plant  but  the  chemical  elements  of  which  it  is 
composed. 

On  leaving  the  manufactory,  the  two  sisters,  who 
had  taken  possession  of  me  with  the  freedom  of 
artlessness,  invited  me  to  share  the  luncheon  they 
had  brought  with  them.  I  declined  at  first,  but 
they  insisted  with  so  much  good  nature  that  I 
feared  to  pain  them,  and  with  some  awkwardnesss 
gave  way. 

We  had  only  to  look  for  a  convenient  spot.  I 
led  them  up  the  hill,  and  we  found  a  plot  of  grass 
enameled  with  daisies  and  shaded  by  two  walnut- 
trees. 

Madeleine  could  not  contain  herself  for  joy.  All 
her  life  she  had  dreamed  of  a  dinner  out  on  the 
grass !  While  helping  her  sister  to  take  the  pro- 
visions from  the  basket,  she  tells  me  of  all  her  ex- 
peditions into  the  country  that  had  been  planned 
and  put  off.  Frances,  on  the  other  hand,  was 
brought  up  at  Montmorency,  and  before  she  became 
an  orphan  she  had  often  gone  back  to  her  nurse's 
house.  That  which  had  the  attraction  of  novelty 
for  her  sister  had  for  her  the  charm  of  recollection. 
She  told  the  vintage  harvests  to  which  her  parents 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  61 

had  taken  her ;  the  rides  on  Mother  Luret's  donkey, 
that  they  could  not  make  go  to  the  right  without 
pulling  him  to  the  left ;  the  cherry-gathering  ;  and 
the  sails  on  the  lake  in  the  boat  of  the  innkeeper. 

These  recollections  have  all  the  charm  and  fresh- 
ness of  childhood.  Frances  recalls  to  herself  less 
what  she  has  seen  than  what  she  has  felt.  While 
she  is  talking  the  cloth  is  laid,  and  we  sit  down  un- 
der a  tree.  Before  us  winds  the  valley  of  Sevres, 
its  many-storied  houses  abutting  upon  the  gardens 
and  the  slopes  of  the  hill ;  on  the  other  side  spreads 
out  the  park  of  St.  Cloud,  with  its  magnificent 
clumps  of  trees  interspersed  with  meadows ;  above 
stretch  the  heavens  like  an  immense  ocean,  in  which 
the  clouds  are  sailing !  I  look  at  this  beautiful 
country  and  I  listen  to  these  good  old  maids;  I 
admire  and  I  am  interested ;  and  time  passes  gently 
on  without  my  perceiving  it. 

At  last  the  sun  sets,  and  we  have  to  think  of  re- 
turning. While  Madeleine  and  Frances  clear  away 
the  dinner,  I  walk  down  to  the  manufactory  to  ask 
the  hour.  The  merry-making  is  at  its  height ;  the 
blasts  of  the  trombones  resound  from  the  band 
under  the  acacias.  For  a  few  moments  I  forget 
myself  with  looking  about ;  but  1  have  promised  the 
two  sisters  to  take  them  back  to  the  Bellevue 
station  :  the  train  cannot  wait,  and  I  make  haste  to 
climb  the  path  again  which  leads  to  the  w^alnut- 
trees. 

Just  before  I  reached  them  I  heard  voices  on  the 
other  side  of  the  hedge.     Madeleine  and  Frances 


62  AN  ATTIC  PniLOSOPBER  IN  PARIS. 

were  speaking  to  a  poor  girl  whose  clothes  were 
burned,  her  hands  blackened,  and  her  face  tied  up 
with  blood-stained  bandages.  I  saw  that  she  was 
one  of  the  girls  employed  at  the  gunpowder  mills, 
which  are  built  higher  up  on  the  common.  An  ex- 
plosion had  taken  place  a  few  days  before  ;  the  girl's 
mother  and  elder  sister  were  killed ;  she  herself 
escaped  by  a  miracle  and  was  now  left  without  any 
means  of  support.  She  told  all  this  with  the  re- 
signed and  unhopeful  manner  of  one  who  has 
always  been  accustomed  to  suffer.  The  two  sisters 
were  much  affected ;  I  saw  them  consulting  with 
one  another  in  a  low  tone :  then  Frances  took  30 
sous  out  of  a  little  coarse  silk  purse,  which  was  all 
they  had  left,  and  gave  them  to  the  poor  girl.  1 
hastened  on  to  that  side  of  the  hedge ;  but  before  I 
reached  it  I  met  the  two  old  sisters,  who  called  out 
to  me  that  they  would  not  return  by  the  railway, 
but  on  foot ! 

I  then  understood  that  the  money  they  had  meant 
for  the  journey  had  just  been  given  to  the  beggar ! 
Good,  like  evil,  is  contagious :  I  run  to  the  poor 
wounded  girl,  give  her  the  sum  that  was  to  pay  for 
my  own  place,  and  return  to  Frances  and  Made- 
leine and  tell  them  I  will  walk  with  them. 


I  am  just  come  back  from  taking  them  home,  and 
have  left  them  delighted  with  their  day,  the  recol- 
lection of  which  will  long  make  them  happy. 

This  morning  I  was  pitying  those  whose  lives  are 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  63 

obscure  and  joyless ;  now,  I  understand  that  God 
has  provided  a  compensation  with  every  trial.  The 
smallest  pleasure  derives  from  rarit}^  a  relish  other- 
wise unknown.  Enjoyment  is  only  what  we  feel  to 
be  such,  and  the  luxurious  man  feels  no  longer  : 
satiety  has  destroyed  his  appetite,  while  privation 
preserves  to  the  other  that  first  of  earthly  blessings, 
the  being  easily  made  happy.  Oh  that  I  could  per- 
suade every  one  of  this  !  that  so  the  rich  might  not 
abuse  their  riches  and  that  the  poor  might  have 
patience.  If  happiness  is  the  rarest  of  blessings,  it 
is  because  the  reception  of  it  is  the  rarest  of  virtues. 
Madeleine  and  Frances  !  yQ  poor  old  maids  whose 
courage,  resignation,  and  generous  hearts  are  your 
only  wealth,  pray  for  the  wretched  who  give  them- 
selves up  to  despair;  for  the  unhappy  who  hate  and 
envy  ;  and  for  the  unfeeling  into  whose  enjoyments 
no  pity  enters. 


64  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAEI8, 


CHAPTER  YI. 

UNCLE     MAURICE. 

June  ^th,  Four  O'clock  AM, — I  am  not  surprised 
at  hearing,  when  I  awake,  the  birds  singing  so  joy- 
fully outside  my  window ;  it  is  only  by  living,  as 
they  and  I  do,  in  a  top  story,  that  one  comes  to 
know  how  cheerful  the  mornings  really  are  up 
among  the  roofs.  It  is  there  that  the  sun  sends  his 
first  rays  and  the  breeze  comes  with  the  fragrance 
of  the  gardens  and  woods ;  there  that  a  wandering 
butterfly  sometimes  ventures  among  the  flowers  of 
the  attic  and  that  the  songs  of  the  industrious 
workwoman  welcome  the  dawn  of  day.  The  lower 
stories  are  still  deep  in  sleep,  silence,  and  shadow, 
while  here  labor,  light,  and  song  already  reign. 

What  life  is  around  me !  See  the  swallow  return- 
ing from  her  search  for  food,  with  her  beak  full  of 
insects  for  her  young  ones  ;  the  sparrows  shake  the 
dew  from  their  wings  while  they  chase  one  another 
in  the  sunshine  ;  and  my  neighbors  throw  open  their 
windows  and  welcome  the  morning  with  their  fresh 
faces  1  Delightful  hour  of  waking,  when  everything 
returns  to  feeling  and  to  motion  ;  when  the  first 
light  of  day  strikes  upon  creation  and  brings  it  to 
life  again,  as  the  magic  wand  struck  the  palace  of 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  65 

the  Sleeping  Beauty  in  the  wood  !  It  is  a  moment 
of  rest  from  every  misery  ;  the  sufferings  of  the  sick 
are  allayed,  and  a  breath  of  hope  enters  into  the 
hearts  of  the  despairing.  But,  alas !  it  is  but  a  short 
respite!  Everything  will  soon  resume  its  wonted 
course :  the  great  human  machine,  with  its  long 
strains,  its  deep  gasps,  its  collisions,  and  its  crashes, 
will  be  again  put  in  motion. 

The  tranquillity  of  this  first  morning  hour  reminds 
me  of  that  of  our  first  years  of  life.  Then,  too,  the 
sun  shines  brightly,  the  air  is  fragrant,  and  the 
illusions  of  youth — those  birds  of  our  life's  morning 
— sing  around  us.  Why  do  they  fly  away  when  we 
are  older  ?  Where  do  this  sadness  and  this  solitude, 
which  gradually  steal  upon  us,  come  from?  The 
course  seems  to  be  the  same  with  individuals  and 
with  communities :  at  starting,  so  readily  made 
happy,  so  easily  enchanted  ;  and  at  the  goal,  the 
bitter  disappointment  of  reality  !  The  road,  which 
began  among  hawthorns  and  primroses,  ends  speedi- 
ly in  deserts  or  in  precipices !  Why  is  there  so 
much  confidence  at  first,  so  much  doubt  at  last? 
Has,  then,  the  knowledge  of  life  no  other  end  but 
to  make  it  unfit  for  happiness  ?  Must  we  condemn 
ourselves  to  ignorance  if  we  would  preserve  hope  ? 
Is  the  world  and  is  the  individual  man  intended, 
after  all,  to  find  rest  only  in  an  eternal  childhood  ? 

How  man}^  times  have  I  asked  myself  these  ques- 
tions !  Solitude  has  the  advantage  or  the  danger  of 
making  us  continually  search  more  deeply  into  the 
same  ideas.     As  our  discourse  is  only  with  ourself, 


66  AK  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

we  always  give  the  same  direction  to  the  conversa- 
tion ;  we  are  not  called  to  turn  it  to  the  subject 
which  occupies  another  mind  or  interests  another's 
feelings ;  and  so  an  involuntary  inclination  makes 
us  return  forever  to  knock  at  the  same  doors ! 

I  interrupted  my  reflections  to  put  my  attic  in 
order.  I  hate  the  look  of  disorder,  because  it  shows 
either  a  contempt  for  details  or  an  inaptness  for 
spiritual  life.  To  arrange  the  things  among  which 
we  have  to  live  is  to  establish  the  relation  of  prop- 
erty and  of  use  between  them  and  us  :  it  is  to  lay  the 
foundation  of  those  habits  without  which  man  tends 
to  the  savage  state.  What,  in  fact,  is  social  organ- 
ization but  a  series  of  habits,  settled  in  accordance 
with  the  dispositions  of  our  nature  ? 

I  distrust  both  the  intellect  and  the  morality  of 
those  people  to  whom  disorder  is  of  no  consequence 
— who  can  live  at  ease  in  an  Augean  stable.  What 
surrounds  us  reflects  more  or  less  that  which  is 
within  us.  The  mind  is  like  one  of  those  dark 
lanterns  w^hich,  in  spite  of  everything,  still  throw 
some  light  around.  If  our  tastes  did  not  reveal  our 
character,  they  would  be  no  longer  tastes,  but 
instincts. 

While  I  was  arranging  everything  in  my  attic, 
my  eyes  rested  on  the  little  almanac  hanging  over 
my  chimney-piece.  I  looked  for  the  day  of  the 
month,  and  i  saw  these  words  written  in  large 
letters  :  "  Fete  Dieu  !" 

It  is  to-day  !  In  this  great  city,  where  there  are 
no  longer  any  public  religious  solemnities,  there  is 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARTS.  67 

nothing  to  remind  us  of  it;  but  it  is,  in  truth,  the 
period  so  happily  chosen  by  the  primitive  Church. 
"  The  day  kept  in  honor  of  the  Creator,"  says  Cha- 
teaubriand, "  happens  at  a  time  when  the  heaven  and 
the  earth  declare  his  power,  when  the  woods  and 
fields  are  full  of  new  life,  and  all  are  united  by  the 
happiest  ties ;  there  is  not  a  single  widowed  plant 
in  the  fields." 

What  recollections  these  words  have  just  awak- 
ened !  I  left  off  what  I  was  about,  I  leaned  my 
elbows  on  the  window-sill,  and,  with  my  head  be- 
tween my  two  hands,  I  went  back  in  thought  to  the 
little  town  where  the  first  days  of  my  childhood 
were  passed. 

The  F  te  Die%i  was  then  one  of  the  great  events 
of  ra}^  life  !  It  was  necessary  to  be  diligent  and 
obedient  a  long  time  beforehand  to  deserve  to  share 
in  it.  I  still  recollect  with  w^hat  raptures  of  ex- 
pectation I  got  up  on  the  morning  of  the  day. 
There  was  a  holy  joy  in  the  air.  The  neighbors,  up 
earlier  than  usual,  hung  cloths  with  flowers  or 
figures  worked  in  tapestry  along  the  streets,  I 
went  from  one  to  another,  by  turns  admiring  relig- 
ious scenes  of  the  Middle  Ages,  mj^thological  com- 
positions of  the  Renaissance,  old  battles  in  the  style 
of  Louis  XIY.,  and  the  Arcadias  of  Madame  de 
Pompadour.  All  this  world  of  phantoms  seemed 
to  be  coming  forth  from  the  dust  of  past  ages  to 
assist — silent  and  motionless — at  the  holy  ceremony. 
I  looked,  alternately  in  fear  and  wonder,  at  those 
terrible  warriors  with  their  swords  always  raised, 


68  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHEM  IN  PARIS. 

those  beautiful  huntresses  shooting  the  arrow  which 
never  left  the  bow,  and  those  shepherds  in  satin 
breeches  always  playing  the  flute  at  the  feet  of  the 
perpetually  smiling  shepherdess.  Sometimes,  when 
the  wind  blew  behind  these  hanging  pictures,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  the  figures  themselves  moved, 
and  I  watched  to  see  them  detach  themselves  from 
the  wall  and  take  their  place  in  the  procession! 
But  these  impressions  were  vague  and  transitory. 
The  feeling  that  predominated  over  every  other  was 
that  of  an  overflowing  yet  quiet  joy.  In  the  midst 
of  all  the  floating  draperies,  the  scattered  flowers, 
the  voices  of  the  maidens,  and  the  gladness  which, 
like  a  perfume,  exhaled  from  everything,  you  felt 
transported  in  spite  of  yourself.  The  joyful  sounds 
of  the  festival  were  repeated  in  your  heart  in  a 
thousand  melodious  echoes.  You  were  more  indul- 
gent, more  holy,  more  loving !  For  God  was  not 
only  manifesting  himself  without,  but  also  within 
us. 

And  then  the  altars  for  the  occasion  !  the  flowery 
arbors  !  the  triumphal  arches  made  of  green  boughs ! 
What  competition  among  the  diff*erent  parishes  for 
the  erection  of  the  resting-places*  where  the  proces- 
sion was  to  halt !  It  was  who  should  contribute 
the  rarest  and  the  most  beautiful  of  his  posses- 
sions ! 

It  was  there  I  made  my  first  sacrifice ! 

*  The  reposoirs^  or  temporary  altars,  on  which  the  conse 
crated  elements  are  placed  while  the  procession  halts. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  69 

The  wreaths  of  flowers  were  arranged,  the  can- 
dles lighted,  and  the  tabernaclef  dressed  with 
roses  ;  but  one  was  wanting  fit  to  crown  the  whole! 
All  the  neighboring  gardens  had  been  ransacked.  I 
alone  possessed  a  flower  worthy  of  such  a  place.  It 
was  on  the  rose-tree  given  me  by  my  mother  on  my 
birthday.  I  had  watched  it  for  several  months, 
and  there  was  no  other  bud  to  blow  on  the  tree. 
There  it  was,  half-open,  in  its  mossy  nest,  the  object 
of  such  long  expectations,  and  of  all  a  child's  pride  ! 
I  hesitated  for  some  moments.  Ko  one  had  asked 
me  for  it ;  I  might  easily  avoid  losing  it.  I  should 
hear  no  reproaches,  but  one  rose  noiselessly  within 
me.  When  everj^  one  else  had  given  all  they  had, 
ought  I  alone  to  keep  back  my  treasure  ?  Ought  I 
to  grudge  to  God  one  of  the  gifts  which,  like  all  the 
rest,  1  had  received  from  him?  At  this  last  thought 
1  plucked  the  flower  from  the  stem  and  took  it  to 
put  at  the  top  of  the  tabernacle.  Ah  !  why  does 
the  recollection  of  this  sacrifice,  which  was  so  hard 
and  yet  so  sweet  to  me,  now  make  me  smile?  Is  it 
so  certain  that  the  value  of  a  gift  is  in  itself  rather 
than  in  the  intention  ?  If  the  cup  of  cold  water  in 
the  Gospel  is  remembered  to  the  poor  man,  why 
should  not  the  flower  be  remembered  to  the  child  ? 
Let  us  not  look  down  upon  the  child's  simple  acts 
of  generosity  ;  it  is  these  which  accustom  the  soul 
to  self-denial  and  to  sympathy.  I  cherished  this 
moss-rose  a  long  time  as  a  sacred  talisman ;  I  had 

t  An  ornamental  case  or  cabinet,  which  contains  the  bread 
and  wine. 


70  ^^  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

reason  to  cherish  it  always,  as  the  record  of  the  first 
victory  won  over  myself. 

It  is  now  many  years  since  I  witnessed  the  cele- 
bration of  the  Fete  Dieii ;  but  should  I  again  feel 
in  it  the  happy  sensations  of  former  days  ?  I  still 
remember  how,  when  the  procession  had  passed, 
I  walked  through  the  the  streets  strewed  with 
liowers  and  shaded  with  green  boughs.  I  felt  in- 
toxicated by  the  lingering  perfumes  of  the  incense, 
mixed  with  the  fragrance  of  syringas,  jessamines, 
and  roses,  and  I  seemed  no  longer  to  touch  the 
ground  as  I  went  along.  I  smiled  at  everything; 
the  whole  world  was  Paradise  in  my  eyes,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  God  was  floating  in  the  air  ! 

Moreover,  this  feeling  was  not  the  excitement  of 
the  moment :  it  might  be  more  intense  on  certain 
days,  but  at  the  same  time  it  continued  through  the 
ordinary  course  of  my  life.  Many  years  thus  passed 
for  me  in  an  expansion  of  heart  and  a  trustfulness 
which  prevented  sorrow,  if  not  from  coming,  at 
least  from  staving  with  me.  Sure  of  not  being" 
alone,  I  soon  took  heart  again,  like  the  child  who 
recovers  its  courage  because  it  hears  its  mother's 
voice  close  by.  Why  have  I  lost  that  confidence  of 
my  childhood  ?  Shall  I  never  feel  again  so  deeply 
that  God  is  here  ? 

How  strange  the  association  of  our  thoughts!  A 
day  of  the  month  recalls  my  infancy,  and  see,  all 
the  recollections  of  my  former  years  are  growing 
up  around  me !  Why  was  I  so  happy  then  ?  I 
consider  well,  and  nothing  is  sensibly  changed  in 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  71 

my  condition.  I  possess,  as  I  did  then,  health  and 
my  daily  bread  ;  the  only  difference  is  that  I  am 
now  responsible  for  myself !  As  a  child,  I  accepted 
life  when  it  came  ;  another  cared  and  provided  for 
me.  As  long  as  I  fullilled  my  present  duties  I 
was  at  peace  within,  and  I  left  the  future  to  the 
prudence  of  my  father !  My  destiny  was  a  ship,  in 
the  direction  of  which  I  had  no  share  and  in  Avhich 
I  sailed  as  a  common  passenger.  There  was  the 
whole  secret  of  childhood's  happy  security.  Since 
then  worldly  wisdom  has  deprived  me  of  it.  AYhen 
my  lot  was  intrusted  to  my  own  and  sole  keeping,  I 
thought  to  make  myself  master  of  it  by  means  of  a 
long  insight  into  the  future.  I  have  filled  the 
present  hour  with  anxieties  by  occupying  my 
thoughts  with  the  future;  I  have  put  my  judgment 
in  the  place  of  Providence,  and  the  happy  child  is 
changed  into  the  anxious  man. 

A  melancholy  course,  yet  perhaps  an  important 
lesson.  Who  knows  that,  if  I  had  trusted  more  to 
Him  who  rules  the  world,  I  should  not  have  been 
spared  all  this  anxiety  ?  It  may  be  that  happiness 
is  not  possible  here  below,  but  on  the  condition  of 
living  like  a  child,  giving  ourselves  up  to  the  duties 
of  each  day  as  it  comes,  and  trusting  in  the  good- 
ness of  our  heavenly  Father  for  all  besides. 

This  reminds  me  of  my  Uncle  Maurice  !  When- 
ever I  have  need  to  strengthen  m^^self  in  all  that 
is  good,  I  turn  my  thoughts  to  him ;  I  see  again 
the  gentle  expression  of  his  half-smiling,  half-mourn- 
ful face ;  I  hear  his  voice,  always  soft  and  soothing 


72  AN  A  TTIC  PniLOSOniEIi  IN  PAniS. 

as  a  breath  of  summer!  The  remembrance  of  him 
protects  my  life  aiul  gives  it  light,  lie,  too,  was  a 
saint  and  martyr  here  below.  Others  liave  pointed 
out  the  path  of  heaven ;  he  has  taught  us  to  see 
those  of  earth  aright. 

But  except  the  angels,  who  are  charged  with 
noting  down  the  sacrihces  performed  in  secret  and 
the  virtues  which  are  never  known,  who  has  ever 
heard  speak  cf  my  Uncle  Alaurice?  Perhaps  I  alone 
remember  his  name  and  still  recall  his  histor3^ 

AVell !  I  will  write  it,  not  for  others,  but  for 
myself  !  They  say  that  at  the  sight  of  the  Apollo 
the  body  erects  itself  and  assumes  a  more  digni- 
fied attitude  :  in  the  same  way,  the  soul  should 
feel  itself  raised  and  ennobled  by  the  recollection 
of  a  good  man's  life  ! 

A  ray  of  the  rising  sun  lights  up  the  little  table 
on  which  I  write  ;  the  breeze  brings  me  in  the  scent 
of  the  mignonette,  and  the  swallows  wheel  about  my 
window  with  joyful  tAvitterings!  The  image  of  my 
Uncle  Maurice  will  be  in  its  proper  place  amid  the 
songs,  the  sunshine,  and  the  fragrance. 

Seven  0\'1oel\ — It  is  with  men's  lives  as  with 
days:  some  dawn  radiant  with  a  thousand  colors, 
others  dark  with  gloomy  clouds.  That  of  ni}^  Uncle 
Maurice  was  one  of  the  latter.  He  was  so  sickly 
when  he  came  into  the  world  that  they  thought  he 
must  die  ;  but  notwithstanding  these  anticipations, 
which  might  be  called  hopes,  he  continued  to  live, 
sulTering  and  deformed. 

lie  was  deprived  of  all  joys  as  well  as  of  all 


AN  A  TTIC  PIIILOSOPUEU  IN  PARIS.  73 

the  attractions  of  childhood.  lie  was  oppressed  be- 
cause be  was  weak  and  laughed  at  for  his  deform- 
ity. In  vain  the  little  hunchback  opened  his  arms 
to  the  world ;  the  world  scolfed  at  him  and  went  its 
way. 

However,  he  still  had  his  mother,  and  it  was  to 
her  that  the  child  directed  all  the  feelings  of  a  heart 
repulsed  by  others.  AVith  her  he  found  shelter  and 
was  liappy  till  he  reached  the  age  when  a  man 
must  take  his  place  in  life ;  and  Maurice  had  to 
content  himself  with  that  which  others  had  refused 
with  contempt.  His  education  would  have  quali- 
fied him  for  any  course  of  life ;  and  he  became  an 
octroi-clerk  ^  in  one  of  the  little  toll-houses  at  the 
entrance  of  his  native  town. 

lie  was  always  shut  up  in  this  dwelling  of  a  few 
feet  square,  with  no  relaxation  from  the  olHce  ac- 
counts but  reading  and  his  mother's  visits.  On  fine 
summer  days  she  came  to  work  at  the  door  of  his  hut, 
under  the  shade  of  a  clematis  planted  by  Maurice. 
And  even  when  she  was  silent  her  presence  was  a 
pleasant  change  for  the  hunchback  ;  he  heard  the 
clinking  of  her  long  knitting-needles  ;  he  saw  her 
mild  and  mournful  profile,  which  reminded  him  of 
so  many  courageously  borne  trials  ;  he  could  every 
now  and  then  rest  his  hand  affectionately  on  that 
bowed-down  neck   and  exchange  a  smile  with  her  ! 

This  comfort  was   soon  to   be  taken   from   him. 
His  old  mother  fell  sick,  and  at  the  end  of  a  few 

*  The  octroi  is  the  tax  on  provisions  levied  at  the  entrance 
of  the  town. 


74  ^^  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

days  he  had  to  give  up  all  hope.  Maurice  was  over- 
come at  the  idea  of  a  separation  which  would 
henceforth  leave  him  alone  on  earth,  and  abandoned 
himself  to  boundless  orief.  He  knelt  bv  the  bed- 
side  of  the  dying  woman,  he  called  her  by  the 
fondest  names,  he  pressed  her  in  his  arms,  as  if  he 
could  so  keep  her  in  life.  His  mother  tried  to  re- 
turn his  caresses  and  to  answer  him  ;  but  her  hands 
were  cold,  her  voice  already  gone.  She  could  only 
press  her  lips  against  the  forehead  of  her  son,  heave 
a  sigh,  and  close  her  eyes  forever ! 

They  tried  to  take  Maurice  away,  but  he  resisted 
them  and  threw  himself  on  that  now  motionless 
form. 

"  Dead  !"  cried  he  ;  "  dead !  She  who  had  never 
left  me,  she  who  was  the  only  one  in  the  world  who 
loved  me !  You,  my  mother,  dead !  What,  then, 
remains  for  me  here  below  ?" 

A  stifled  voice  replied  : 

"  God !" 

Maurice,  startled,  raised  himself  up!  Was  it  a 
last  sigh  from  the  dead  or  his  own  conscience  that 
had  answered  him  ?  He  did  not  seek  to  know,  but 
he  understood  the  answer,  and  accepted  it. 

It  was  then  that  I  first  knew  him.  I  often  went 
to  see  him  in  his  little  toll-house.  He  mixed  in  my 
childish  games,  told  me  his  finest  stories,  and  let  me 
gather  his  flowers.  Deprived  as  he  was  of  all  ex- 
ternal attractiveness,  he  showed  himself  full  of  kind- 
ness to  all  who  came  to  him,  and  though  he  never 
would  put  himself  forward,  he  had  a  welcome  for 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHEn  IN  PARIS.  75 

every  one.  Deserted,  despised,  he  submitted  to 
everything  with  a  gentle  patience  ;  and  while  he 
was  thus  stretched  on  the  the  cross  of  life,  amid  the 
insults  of  his  executioners,  he  repeated  with  Christ, 
"  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what 
they  do." 

No  other  clerk  showed  so  much  honesty  zeal  and 
intelligence ;  but  those  who  otherwise  might  have 
promoted  him  as  his  services  deserved  were  repulsed 
by  his  deformity.  As  he  had  no  patrons,  he  found 
his  claims  were  always  disregarded.  They  pre- 
ferred before  him  those  who  were  better  able  to  make 
themselves  agreeable,  and  seemed  to  be  granting 
him  a  favor  when  letting  him  keep  the  humble  office 
which  enabled  him  to  live.  Uncle  Maurice  bore 
injustice  as  he  had  borne  contempt ;  unfairly  treated 
by  men,  he  raised  his  eyes  higher  and  trusted  in 
the  justice  of  Him  who  cannot  be  deceived. 

He  lived  in  an  old  house  in  the  suburb,  where 
many  workpeople,  as  poor  but  not  as  forlorn  as  he, 
also  lodged.  Among  these  neighbors  there  was  a 
single  woman,  who  lived  by  herself  in  a  little  gar- 
ret, into  which  came  both  wind  and  rain.  She  was 
a  young  girl,  pale,  silent,  and  with  nothing  to  rec- 
ommend her  but  her  wretchedness  and  her  resigna- 
tion to  it.  She  was  never  seen  speaking  to  any 
other  woman,  and  no  song  cheered  her  garret.  She 
worked  without  interest  and  without  relaxation ; 
a  depressing  gloom  seemed  to  envelop  her  like  a 
shroud.  Her  dejection  affected  Maurice ;  he  at- 
tempted to  speak  to  her :  she  replied  mildly,  but  in 


76  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

few  words.  It  was  easy  to  see  that  she  preferred 
her  silence  and  her  solitude  to  the  little  hunchback's 
good-will ;  he  perceived  it  and  said  no  more. 

But  Toinette's  needle  was  hardly  sufficient  for 
her  support,  and  presently  work  failed  her !  Mau- 
rice learned  that  the  poor  girl  was  in  want  of 
everything,  and  that  the  tradesmen  refused  to  give 
her  credit.  He  immediately  went  to  them,  and 
privately  engaged  to  pay  them  for  what  they  sup- 
plied Toinette  with. 

Things  went  on  in  this  way  for  several  months. 
The  young  dressmaker  continued  out  of  work,  until 
she  was  at  last  frightened  at  the  bills  she  had  con- 
tracted with  the  shopkeepers.  When  she  came  to 
an  explanation  with  them,  everything  was  dis- 
covered. Her  first  impulse  was  to  run  to  Uncle 
Maurice  and  thank  him  on  her  knees.  Her  habitual 
reserve  had  given  way  to  a  burst  of  deepest  feeling. 
It  seemed  as  if  gratitude  had  melted  all  the  ice  of 
that  numbed  heart. 

Being  now  no  longer  embarrassed  with  a  secret, 
the  little  hunchback  could  give  greater  efficacy  to 
his  good  offices.  Toinette  became  to  him  a  sister, 
for  whose  wants  he  had  a  right  to  provide.  It  was 
the  first  time  since  the  death  of  his  mother  that  he 
had  been  able  to  share  his  life  with  another.  The 
young  woman  received  his  attentions  with  feeling, 
but  with  reserve.  All  Maurice's  efforts  were  insuf- 
ficient to  dispel  her  gloom  :  she  seemed  touched  by 
his  kindness,  and  sometimes  expressed  her  sense  of 
it  with  warmth ;  but  there  she  stopped.     Her  heart 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  77 

was  a  closed  book,  which  the  little  hunchback  might 
bend  over,  but  could  not  read.  In  truth  he  cared 
little  to  do  so :  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  happiness 
of  being  no  longer  alone,  and  took  Toinette  such  as 
her  long  trials  had  made  her ;  he  loved  her  as  she 
was,  and  wished  for  nothing  else  but  still  to  enjoy 
her  company. 

This  thought  insensibly  took  possession  of  his 
mind,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  besides.  The  poor  girl 
was  as  forlorn  as  himself  ;  she  had  become  accus- 
tomed to  the  deformity  of  the  hunchback,  and  she 
seemed  to  look  on  him  with  an  affectionate 
sympathy!  What  more  could  he  wish  for?  Until 
then,  the  hopes  of  making  himself  acceptable  to  a 
helpmate  had  been  repelled  by  Maurice  as  a  dream  ; 
but  chance  seemed  willing  to  make  it  a  reality. 
After  much  hesitation  he  took  courage  and  decided 
to  speak  to  her. 

It  was  evening ;  the  little  hunchback,  in  much 
agitation,  directed  his  steps  toward  the  work- 
woman's garret.  Just  as  he  was  about  to  enter,  he 
thought  he  heard  a  strange  voice  pronouncing  the 
maiden's  name.  He  quickly  pushed  open  the  door, 
and  perceived  Toinette  weeping  and  leaning  on 
the  shoulder  of  a  young  man  in  the  dress  of  a 
sailor. 

At  the  sight  of  my  uncle,  she  disengaged  herself 
quickly  and  ran  to  him,  crying  out : 

"  Ah  !  come  in — come  in  !  It  is  he  that  I  thought 
was  dead  :  it  is  Julien  ;  it  is  my  betrothed !" 

Maurice  tottered  and  drew  back.  A  single  word 
had  told  him  all ! 


78  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAItlS. 

It  seemed  to  hira  as  if  the  ground  shook  and  his 
heart  was  going  to  break ;  but  the  same  voice  that 
he  had  heard  by  his  mother's  death-bed  again 
sounded  in  his  ears,  and  he  soon  recovered  himself. 
God  was  still  his  friend  ! 

He  himself  accompanied  the  newly  married  pair 
on  the  road  when  they  went  away,  and  after  hav- 
ing wished  them  all  the  happiness  which  was  denied 
to  him,  he  returned  with  resignation  to  the  old 
house  in  the  suburb. 

It  was  there  that  he  ended  his  life,  forsaken  by 
men,  but  not  as  he  said  by  the  "Father  which  is  in 
heaven."  He  felt  his  presence  everywhere ;  it  was 
to  him  in  the  place  of  all  else.  When  he  died,  it 
was  with  a  smile  and  like  an  exile  setting  out  for 
his  own  country.  He  who  had  consoled  him  in 
poverty  and  ill-health,  when  he  was  suffering  from 
injustice  and  forsaken  by  all,  had  made  death  a 
gain  and  blessing  to  him. 

Eight  0^ clock. — All  I  have  just  written  has  pained 
me  !  Till  now  I  have  looked  into  life  for  instruction 
how  to  live.  Is  it,  then,  true  that  human  maxims 
are  not  always  sufficient?  that  beyond  goodness, 
prudence,  moderation,  humility,  self-sacrifice  itself, 
there  is  one  great  truth,  which  alone  can  face  great 
misfortunes  %  and  that,  if  man  had  need  of  virtues 
for  others,  he  has  need  of  religion  for  himself  ? 

When,  in  youth,  we  drink  our  wine  with  a  merry 
heart,  as  the  Scripture  expresses  it,  we  think  we  are 
sufficient  for  ourselves ;  strong,  happy,  and  beloved, 
we    believe,  like  Ajax,  we   shall  be  able  to  escape 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  79 

every  storm  in  spite  of  tke  gods.  But  later  in  life 
when  the  back  is  bowed,  when  happiness  proves  a 
fading  flower,  and  the  affections  grow  chill — then, 
in  fear  of  the  void  and  the  darkness,  we  stretch  out 
our  arms,  like  the  child  overtaken  by  night,  and  we 
call  for  help  to  Him  who  is  everywhere. 

I  was  asking  this  morning,  why  this  growing  con- 
fusion alike  for  society  and  for  the  individual  ?  In 
vain  does  human  reason  from  hour  to  hour  light 
some  new  torch  on  the  roadside  :  the  night  continues 
to  grow  ever  darker !  Is  it  not  because  we  are  con- 
tent to  withdraw  further  and  further  from  God,  the 
Sun  of  spirits  ? 

But  what  do  these  hermits'  reveries  signify  to  the 
world  ?  The  inward  turmoils  of  most  men  are 
stifled  by  the  outward  ones  ;  life  does  not  give  them 
time  to  question  themselves.  Have  they  time  to 
know  what  they  are,  and  what  they  should  be, 
whose  whole  thoughts  are  in  the  next  lease  or  the 
last  price  of  stock  ?  Heaven  is  very  high,  and  wise 
men  look  only  to  the  earth. 

But  I — poor  savage  amid  all  this  civilization,  who 
seek  neither  power  nor  riches,  and  who  have  found 
in  my  own  thoughts  the  home  and  shelter  of  my 
spirit — I  can  go  back  with  impunity  to  these  recol- 
lections of  my  childhood  ;  and  if  this  our  great  city 
no  longer  honors  the  name  of  God  with  a  festival,  I 
will  strive  still  to  keep  the  feast  to  him  in  my 
heart. 


80  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


CHxlPTEK  YII. 

THE    PRICE    OF    POWER    AND    THE    WORTH    OF    FAME. 

Sunday^  Jidy  1st. — Yesterday  the  month  dedicat- 
ed to  Juno  {Junius^  June)  bj  the  Eomans  ended. 
To-day  we  enter  on  July. 

In  ancient  Rome  this  latter  month  was  called 
Quintilis  (the  fifth),  because  the  year,  which  was 
then  only  divided  into  ten  parts,  began  in  March. 
When  Numa  Pompilius  divided  it  into  twelve 
months  this  name  of  Quintilis  was  preserved,  as 
well  as  those  that  followed — Sextilis^  September, 
October,  November,  December — although  these 
designations  did  not  accord  with  the  newly  ar- 
ranged order  of  the  months.  At  last,  after  a  time 
the  month  Quintilis.,  in  which  Julius  Caesar  was 
born,  was  called  Julius^  from  whence  we  have  July. 
Thus  this  name,  placed  in  the  calendar,  is  become 
the  imperishable  record  of  a  great  man  ;  it  is  an  im- 
mortal epitaph  on  Time's  highway,  engraved  by  the 
admiration  of  man. 

How  many  similar  inscriptions  are  there !  Seas, 
continents,  mountams,  stars,  and  monuments  have 
all  in  succession  served  the  same  purpose !  We 
have  turned  the  whole  world  into  a  Golden  Book, 
like  that  in  which  the  state  of  Venice  used  to  enroll 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  81 

its  illustrious  names  and  its  great  deeds.  It  seems 
that  mankind  feels  a  necessity  for  honoring  itself  in 
its  elect  ones,  and  that  it  raises  itself  in  its  own  eyes 
by  choosing  heroes  from  among  its  own  race.  The 
human  family  love  to  preserve  the  memory  of  the 
^^ pcBi'vemts  "  of  glory,  as  we  cherish  that  of  a  re- 
nowned ancestor  or  of  a  benefactor. 

In  fact,  the  talents  granted  to  a  single  individual 
do  not  benefit  himself  alone,  but  are  gifts  to  the 
world  ;  every  one  shares  them,  for  every  one  suffers 
or  benefits  by  his  actions.  Genius  is  a  lighthouse, 
meant  to  give  light  from  afar;  the  man  who  bears 
it  is  but  the  rock  upon  which  this  lighthouse  is 
built. 

I  love  to  dwell  upon  these  thoughts ;  they  explain 
to  me  in  what  consists  our  admiration  for  glory. 
When  glory  has  benefited  men,  that  admiration  is 
gratitude  :  when  it  is  only  remarkable  in  itself,  it  is 
the  pride  of  race ;  as  men,  we  love  to  immortalize 
the  most  shining  examples  of  humanity. 

Who  knows  whether  we  do  not  obey  the  same 
instinct  in  submitting  to  the  hand  of  power  ?  Apart 
from  the  requirements  of  a  gradation  of  ranks  or 
the  consequences  of  a  conquest,  the  multitude  de- 
light to  surround  their  chiefs  with  privileges — 
whether  it  be  that  their  vanity  makes  them  thus  to 
aggrandize  one  of  their  own  creations,  or  w^iether 
they  try  to  conceal  the  humiliation  of  subjection  by 
exaggerating  the  importance  of  those  who  rule 
them.  They  wish  to  honor  themselves  through 
their  master ;  they  elevate  him  on  their  shoulders 


82  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

as  on  a  pedestal ;  they  surround  him  with  a  halo  of 
light,  in  order  that  some  of  it  may  be  reflected  upon 
themselves.  It  is  still  the  fable  of  the  doo:  who 
contents  himself  with  the  chain  and  collar,  so  that 
they  are  of  gold. 

This  servile  vanity  is  not  less  natural  or  less  com- 
mon than  the  vanity  of  dominion.  Whoever  feels 
himself  incapable  of  command,  at  least  desires  to 
obey  a  powerful  chief.  Serfs  have  been  known  to 
consider  themselves  dishonored  when  they  became 
the  property  of  a  mere  count  after  having  been  that 
of  a  prince,  and  Saint-Simon  mentions  a  valet  who 
would  only  wait  upon  marquises. 

July  ^th^  Seven  C^ clock  P.M. — Ihave  justnow  been 
up  the  Boulevards  ;  it  was  the  opera  night,  and 
there  was  a  crowd  of  carriages  in  the  Rue  Lepelle- 
tier.  The  foot-passengers  who  were  stopped  at  a 
crossing  recognized  the  persons  in  some  of  these  as 
they  went  by  and  mentioned  their  names ;  they 
were  those  of  celebrated  or  powerful  men,  the  suc- 
cessful ones  of  the  day. 

Near  me  there  was  a  man  looking  on  with  hollow 
cheeks  and  eager  eyes,  and  whose  black  coat  was 
threadbare.  He  followed  with  envious  looks  these 
possessors  of  the  privileges  of  power  or  of  fame,  and 
I  read  on  his  lips,  which  curled  with  a  bitter  smile, 
all  that  passed  in  his  mind. 

*'  Look  at  them,  the  lucky  fellows  !"  thought  he  ; 
"  all  the  pleasures  of  wealth,  all  the  enjoyments  of 
pride,  are  theirs.  Their  names  are  renowned,  all 
their  wishes  fulfilled  ;  they  are  the  sovereigns  of 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  83 

the  world  either  by  their  intellect  or  their  power  ; 
and  while  I,  poor  and  unknown,  toil  painfully  along 
the  road  below,  they  wing  their  way  over  the 
mountain-tops  gilded  by  the  broad  sunshine  of  pros- 
perity." 

I  have  come  home  in  deep  thought.  Is  it  true 
that  there  are  these  inequalities,  I  do  not  say  in  the 
fortunes,  but  in  the  happiness  of  men  ?  Do  genius 
and  authority  really  wear  life  as  a  crown,  while  the 
greater  part  of  mankind  receive  it  as  a  yoke  ?  Is 
the  difference  of  rank  but  a  different  use  of  men's 
dispositions  and  talent's,  or  a  real  inequality  in  their 
destinies  ?  A  solemn  question,  as  it  regards  the 
verification  of  God's  impartiality. 

July  Sth,  Noon. — I  went  this  morning  to  call  upon 
a  friend  from  the  same  province  as  myself,  and  who 
is  first  usher  in  waiting  to  one  of  our  ministers.  I 
took  him  some  letters  from  his  family,  left  for  him 
by  a  traveler  just  come  from  Brittany.  He  wished 
me  to  stay. 

"To-day,"  said  he,  "the  minister  gives  no  au- 
dience :  he  takes  a  day  of  rest  with  his  family.  His 
younger  sisters  are  arrived :  he  will  take  them  this 
morning  to  St.  Cloud,  and  in  the  evening  he  has  in- 
vited his  friends  to  a  private  ball.  I  shall  be  dis- 
missed directly  for  the  rest  of  the  day.  We  can 
dine  together ;  read  the  news  while  you  are  waiting 
for  me." 

I  sat  down  at  a  table  covered  with  newspapers, 
all  of  which  I  looked  over  by  turns.  Most  of  them 
contained  severe  criticisms  on  the  last  political  acts 


84  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

of  the  minister ;  some  of  them  added  suspicions  as 
to  the  honor  of  the  minister  himself. 

Just  as  I  had  finished  reading,  a  secretary  came 
for  them  to  take  them  to  his  master. 

He  was  then  about  to  read  these  accusations,  to 
suffer  silently  the  abuse  of  all  those  tongues  which 
were  holding  him  up  to  indignation  or  to  scorn ! 
Like  the  Roman  victor  in  his  triumph,  he  had  to 
endure  the  insults  of  him  who  followed  his  car,  re- 
lating to  the  crowd  his  follies,  his  ignorance,  or  his 
vices. 

But  among  the  arrows  shot  at  him  from  every 
side,  would  no  one  be  found  poisoned  ?  Would  not 
one  reach  some  spot  in  his  heart  where  the  wound 
would  be  incurable  ?  What  is  the  worth  of  a  life 
exposed  to  the  attacks  of  envious  hatred  or  furious 
conviction  ?  The  Christians  yielded  only  the  frag- 
ments of  their  flesh  to  the  beasts  of  the  amphi- 
theaters ;  the  man  in  power  gives  up  his  peace,  his 
affections,  his  honor,  to  the  cruel  bites  of  the  pen. 

While  I  was  musing  upon  these  dangers  of  great- 
ness, the  usher  entered  hastil3\  Important  news 
has  been  received :  the  minister  is  just  summoned 
to  the  council ;  he  will  not  be  able  to  take  his 
sisters  to  St.  Cloud. 

I  saw,  through  the  windows,  the  young  ladies, 
who  were  waiting  at  the  door,  sorrowfully  go  up- 
stairs again,  while  their  brother  went  off  to  the 
council.  The  carriage,  which  should  have  gone 
filled  with  so  much  family  happiness,  is  just  out  of 
sight,  carrying  only  the  cares  of  a  statesman  in  it. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  85 

The  usher  came  back  discontented  and  disap- 
pointed. 

The  more  or  less  of  liberty  which  he  is  allowed 
to  enjoy  is  his  barometer  of  the  political  atmos- 
phere. If  he  gets  leave,  all  goes  well ;  if  he  is  kept 
at  his  post,  the  country  is  in  danger.  His  opinion 
on  public  affairs  is  but  a  calculation  of  his  own  in- 
terest.    My  friend  is  almost  a  statesman. 

I  had  some  conversation  with  him,  and  he  told 
me  several  curious  particulars  of  public  life. 

The  new  minister  has  old  friends,  whose  opinions 
he  opposes,  though  he  still  retains  his  personal 
regard  for  them.  Though  separated. from  them  by 
the  colors  he  fights  under,  they  remain  united  by 
old  associations  ;  but  the  exigencies  of  party  forbid 
him  to  meet  them.  If  their  intercourse  continued, 
it  would  awaken  suspicion  ;  people  would  imagine 
that  some  dishonorable  bargain  was  going  on  ;  his 
friends  would  be  held  to  be  traitors  desirous  to  sell 
themselves,  and  he  the  corrupt  minister  prepared  to 
buy  them.  He  has,  therefore,  been  obliged  to 
break  off  friendships  of  twenty  years'  standing,  and 
to  sacrifice  attachments  which  had  become  a  second 
nature. 

Sometimes,  however,  the  minister  still  gives  way 
to  his  old  feelings  ;  he  receives  or  visits  his  friends 
privately ;  he  shuts  himself  up  with  them  and 
talks  of  the  times  when  they  could  be  open  friends. 
By  dint  of  precautions  they  have  hitherto  succeeded 
in  concealing  this  plot  of  friendship  against  policy ; 
but  sooner  or  later  the  newspapers  will  be  informed 


86  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

of  it  and  will  denounce  him  to  the  country  as  an 
object  of  distrust. 

For  whether  hatred  be  honest  or  dishonest,  it 
never  shrinks  from  any  accusation.  Sometimes  it 
even  proceeds  to  crime.  The  usher  assured  me  that 
several  warnings  had  been  given  the  minister  which 
had  made  him  fear  the  vengeance  of  an  assassin, 
and  that  he  no  longer  ventured  out  on  foot. 

Then,  from  one  thing  to  another,  I  learned  what 
temptations  came  in  to  mislead  or  overcome  his 
judgment ;  how  he  found  himself  fatally  led  into 
obliquities  which  he  could  not  but  deplore.  Misled 
by  passion,  over-persuaded  by  entreaties,  or  com- 
pelled for  reputation's  sake,  he  has  many  times  held 
the  balance  with  an  unsteady  hand.  How  sad  the 
condition  of  him  who  is  in  authority !  Not  only 
are  the  miseries  of  power  imposed  upon  him,  but  its 
vices,  also,  which,  not  content  with  torturing, 
succeed  in  corrupting  him. 

"We  prolonged  our  conversation  till  it  was  inter- 
rupted by  the  minister's  return.  He  threw  himself 
out  of  the  carriage  with  a  handful  of  papers,  and 
with  an  anxious  manner  went  into  his  own  room. 
An  instant  afterward  his  bell  was  heard ;  his 
secretary  was  called  to  send  off  notices  to  all  those 
invited  for  the  evening  ;  the  ball  would  not  take 
place ;  they  spoke  mysteriously  of  bad  news  trans- 
mitted by  the  telegraph,  and  in  such  circumstances 
an  entertainment  would  seem  to  insult  the  public 
sorrow. 

I  took  leave  of  my  friend,  and  here  I  am  at 


AN-  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  87 

home.  What  I  have  just  seen  is  an  answer  to  my 
doubts  the  other  clav.  Now  I  know  with  what 
pangs  men  pay  their  dignities  ;  1  now  understand 

"  That  Fortune  sells  what  we  believe  she  gives." 

This  explains  to  me  why  Charles  Y.  aspired  to 
the  repose  of  the  cloister. 

And  yet  I  have  only  glanced  at  some  of  the  suf- 
ferings attached  to  power.  What  shall  I  say  of  the 
falls  in  which  its  possessors  are  precipitated  from 
the  heights  of  heaven  to  the  very  depths  of  the 
earth  ?  of  that  path  of  pain  along  which  they  must 
forever  bear  the  burden  of  their  responsibility  ?  of 
that  chain  of  decorums  and  ennuis  which  encom- 
passes every  act  of  their  lives  and  leaves  them  so 
little  liberty  ? 

The  partisans  of  despotism  adhere  with  reason  to 
forms  and  ceromonies.  If  men  wish  to  give  un- 
limited power  to  their  fellow-man,  they  must  keep 
him  separated  from  ordinary  humanity ;  they  must 
surround  him  with  a  continual  worship,  and  by  a 
constant  ceromonial  keep  up  for  him  the  super- 
human part  they  have  granted  him.  Our  masters 
cannot  remain  absolute  but  on  condition  of  being 
treated  as  idols. 

But.  after  all,  these  idols  are  men,  and  if  the  ex- 
clusive life  the}^  must  lead  is  an  insult  to  the  dignity 
of  others,  it  is  also  a  torment  to  themselves.  Every 
one  knows  the  law  of  the  Spanish  court,  which 
used  to  regulate,  hour  by  hour,  the  actions  of  the 
king  and  queen ;  "  so  that,"   says   Voltaire,   "  by 


88  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

reading  it  one  can  tell  all  that  the  sovereigns  of 
Spain  have  done,  or  will  do,  from  Philip  II.  to  the 
day  of  judgment."  It  was  by  this  law  that  Philip 
III.,  when  sick,  was  obliged  to  endure  such  an 
excess  of  heat  that  he  died  in  consequence,  because 
the  Duke  of  Uzeda,  who  alone  had  the  right  to  put 
out  the  fire  in  the  royal  chamber,  happened  to  be 
absent. 

When  the  wife  of  Charles  II.  was  run  away  with 
on  a  spirited  horse  she  was  about  to  perish  before 
any  one  dared  to  save  her,  because  etiquette  forbade 
them  to  touch  the  queen.  Two  young  officers  en- 
dangered their  lives  for  her  by  stopping  the  horse. 
The  prayers  and  tears  of  her  whom  they  had  just 
snatched  from  death  were  necessar}^  to  obtain  par- 
don for  their  crime.  Every  one  knows  the  anecdote 
related  by  Madame  Campan  of  Marie  Antoinette, 
wife  of  Louis  XYL  One  day,  being  at  her  toilet, 
when  the  shift  was  about  to  be  presented  to  her  hj 
one  of  the  assistants,  a  lady  of  very  ancient  family 
entered  and  claimed  the  honor,  as  she  had  the  right 
by  etiquette ;  but  at  the  moment  she  was  going  to 
fulfill  her  duty,  a  lady  of  higher  rank  appeared,  and 
in  her  turn  took  the  garment  she  was  about  to  offer 
to  the  queen  ;  when  a  third  lady  of  still  higher  title 
came  in  her  turn,  and  was  followed  by  a  fourth,  who 
was  no  other  than  the  king's  sister.  The  shift  was 
in  this  manner  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  with 
ceremonies,  courtesies,  and  compliments,  before  it 
came  to  the  queen,  who,  half-naked  and  quite 
ashamed,  was  shivering  with  cold  for  the  great 
honor  of  eti(juette» 


AN  ATI  JO  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  89 

12th,  Seven  Cdock  P.M. — On  coming  home  this 
evening  I  saw,  standing  at  the  door  of  a  house,  an 
old  man  whose  appearance  and  features  reminded 
me  of  my  father.  There  was  the  same  beautiful 
smile,  the  same  deep  and  penetrating  eye,  the  same 
noble  bearing  of  the  head,  and  the  same  careless 
attitude. 

I  began  living  over  again  the  first  years  of  wly 
life  and  recalling  to  myself  the  conversations  of 
that  guide  whom  God  hin  is  mercy  had  given  me, 
and  whom  in  his  severity  he  had  too  soon  with- 
drawn. 

When  my  father  spoke  it  was  not  only  to  bring 
our  two  minds  together  by  an  interchange  of 
thought,  but  his  words  always  contained  instruc- 
tion. 

E'ot  that  he  endeavored  to  make  me  feel  it  so : 
my  father  feared  everything  that  had  the  appear- 
ance of  a  lesson.  He  used  to  say  that  virtue  could 
make  herself  devoted  friends,  but  she  did  not  take 
pupils :  therefore  he  was  not  anxious  to  teach 
goodness ;  he  contented  himself  with  sowing  the 
seeds  of  it,  certain  that  experience  would  make  them 
grow. 

How  often  has  good  grain  fallen  thus  into  a 
corner  of  the  heart,  and  when  it  has  been  long  for- 
gotten, all  at  once  put  forth  the  blade  and  come 
into  ear.  It  is  a  treasure  laid  aside  in  a  time  of 
ignorance,  and  we  do  not  know  its  value  till  the 
day  we  find  ourselves  in  need  of  it. 

Among  the  stories  wuth  which  he  enlivened  our 


90  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

walks  or  our  evenings  there  is  one  which  now  re- 
turns to  my  memory,  doubtless  because  the  time  is 
come  to  derive  its  lesson  from  it. 

My  father,  who  was  apprenticed  at  the  age  of 
twelve  to  one  of  those  trading  collectors  who  call 
themselves  naturalists,  because  they  put  all  creation 
under  glasses  that  they  may  sell  it  by  retail,  had 
always  led  a  life  of  poverty  and  labor.  Obliged  to 
rise  before  daybreak,  by  turns  shop-boy,  clerk,  and 
laborer,  he  was  made  to  bear  alone  all  the  work  of 
a  trade  of  w^hich  his  master  reaped  all  the  profits. 
In  truth,  this  latter  had  a  peculiar  talent  for 
making  the  most  of  the  labor  of  other  people. 
Though  unfit  himself  for  the  execution  of  any  kind 
of  w^ork,  no  one  knew  better  how  to  sell  it.  His 
words  w^ere  a  net,  in  which  people  found  themselves 
taken  before  they  were  aware.  And  since  he  was 
devoted  to  himself  alone  and  looked  on  the  pro- 
ducer as  his  enemy  and  the  bu\^er  as  his  prey,  he 
used  them  both  up  with  that  obstinate  perseverance 
which  avarice  teaches. 

My  father  was  a  slave  all  the  week  and  could 
only  call  himself  his  own  on  Sunday.  The  master 
naturalist,  who  used  to  spend  the  day  at  the  house 
of  an  old  female  relation,  then  gave  him  his  liberty 
on  condition  that  he  dined  out  and  at  his  own 
expense.  But  my  father  used  secretly  to  take  with 
him  a  crust  of  bread,  which  he  hid  in  his  botanizing 
box,  and  leaving  Paris  as  soon  as  it  was  day,  he 
would  wander  far  into  the  valley  of  Montmorency, 
the  wood  of  Meudon,  or  among  the  windings  of  the 


Air  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  91 

Marne.  Excited  by  the  fresh  air,  the  penetrating 
perfume  of  the  growing  vegetation,  or  the  fragrance 
of  the  honeysuckles,  he  would  walk  on  until  hunger 
or  fatigue  made  itself  felt.  Then  he  would  sit 
under  a  hedge  or  by  the  side  of  a  stream,  and  would 
make  a  rustic  feast  by  turns  on  water-cresses,  wood 
strawberries,  and  blackberries  ])icked  from  the 
hedges ;  he  would  gather  a  few  plants,  read  a  few 
pages  of  Florian,  then  in  greatest  vogue,  of  Gessner, 
who  was  just  translated,  or  of  Jean  Jacques,  of 
whom  he  possessed  three  odd  volumes.  The  day 
was  thus  passed  alternately  in  activity  and  rest,  in 
pursuit  and  meditation,  until  the  declining  sun 
warned  him  to  take  again  the  road  to  Paris,  where 
he  would  arrive,  his  feet  torn  and  dusty,  but  his 
mind  invigorated  for  a  whole  week. 

One  day  as  he  was  going  toward  the  wood  of 
Yiroflay  he  met  close  to  it  a  stranger  who  was 
occupied  in  botanizing  and  in  sorting  the  plants  he 
had  just  gathered.  He  was  an  oldish  man  with  an 
honest  face ;  but  his  eyes,  which  were  rather  deep 
set  under  his  eyebrows,  had  a  somewhat  uneasy  and 
timid  expression.  He  was  dressed  in  a  brown  cloth 
coat,  a  gray  waistcoat,  black  breeches,  and  worsted 
stockings,  and  held  an  ivory-headed  cane  under  his 
arm.  His  appearance  was  that  of  a  small  retired 
tradesman  who  was  living  on  his  means,  and  rather 
below  the  golden  mean  of  Horace. 

My  father,  who  had  great  respect  for  age.  civilly 
raised  his  hat  to  him  as  he  passed.  In  doing  so,  a 
plant  he  held  fell  from  his  hand ;  the  stranger 
stooped  to  take  it  up  and  recognized  it. 


92  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

*'  It  is  a  Deutaria  heptapliyllos^^  said  he.  "  I  have 
not  yet  seen  any  of  them  in  these  woods ;  did  you 
find  it  near  here,  sir  ?" 

My  father  replied  that  it  was  to  be  found  in 
abundance  on  the  top  of  the  hill,  toward  Sevres,  as 
well  as  the  great  Laserpiiiimi. 

"  That,  too  !"  repeated  the  old  man  more  briskly. 
"  Ah  !  I  shall  go  and  look  for  them  ;  I  have  gath- 
ered them  formerly  on  the  hillside  of  Eobaila." 

My  father  proposed  to  take  him.  The  stranger 
accepted  his  proposal  w^ith  thanks,  and  hastened  to 
collect  together  the  plants  he  had  gathered  ;  but  all 
of  a  suddea  he  appeared  seized  with  a  scruple.  He 
observed  to  his  companion  that  the  road  he  was  go- 
ing was  half-way  up  the  hill,  and  led  in  the  direction 
of  the  castle  of  the  Dames  Royales  at  Bellevue ; 
that  by  going  to  the  top  he  would  consequently 
turn  out  of  his  road,  and  that  it  was  not  right  he 
should  take  this  trouble  for  a  stranger. 

My  father  insisted  upon  it  with  his  habitual  good 
nature ;  but  the  more  eagerness  he  showed  the 
more  obstinately  the  old  man  refused ;  it  even 
seemed  to  my  father  that  his  good  intention  at  last 
excited  his  suspicion.  He  therefore  contented  him- 
self with  pointing  out  the  road  to  the  stranger, 
whom  he  saluted,  and  he  soon  lost  sight  of  him. 

Many  hours  passed  by,  and  he  thought  no  more 
of  the  meeting.  He  had  reached  the  copses  of  Cha- 
ville,  where,  stretched  on  the  ground  in  a  mossy 
glade,  he  read  once  more  the  last  volume  of 
"  Emile."     The  delight  of  reading  it  had  so  com- 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  93 

})letely  absorbed  him  that  he  had  ceased  to  see  or 
hear  anything  around  him.  With  his  cheeks  flushed 
and  his  eyes  moist,  he  repeated  aloud  a  passage 
which  had  particularly  affected  him. 

An  exclamation  uttered  close  by  him  awoke  him 
from  his  ecstasy  ;  he  raised  his  head  and  perceived 
the  tradesman-looking  person  he  had  met  before  on 
the  cross-road  at  Yiroflay. 

He  was  loaded  with  plants,  the  collection  of 
which  seemed  to  have  put  him  into  high  good 
humor. 

"  A  thousand  thanks,  sir,"  said  he  to  my  father. 
*'  I  have  found  all  that  you  told  me  of,  and  I  am  in- 
debted to  you  for  a  charming  walk." 

My  father  respectfully  rose  and  made  a  civil 
reply.  The  stranger  had  grown  quite  familiar,  and 
even  asked  if  his  young  brother  botanist  did  not 
think  of  returning  to  Paris.  My  father  replied  in 
the  affirmative,  and  opened  his  tin  box  to  put  his 
book  back  in  it. 

The  stranger  asked  him  with  a  smile  if  he  might 
without  impertinence  ask  the  name  of  it.  My  fa- 
ther answered  that  it  was  Rousseau's  "  Emile." 

The  stranger  immediately  became  grave. 

They  walked  for  some  time  side  by  side,  my 
father  expressing,  with  the  warmth  of  a  heart  still 
throbbing  with  emotion,  all  that  this  work  had 
made  him  feel ;  his  companion  remaining  cold  and 
silent.  The  former  extolled  the  glory  of  the  great 
Genevese  writer,  whose  genius  had  made  him  a 
citizen  of  the  world  ;  he  expatiated  on  this  privilege 


94  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

of  great  thinkers,  who  reign  in  spite  of  time  and 
space,  and  gather  together  a  people  of  willing  sub- 
jects out  of  all  nations;  but  the  stranger  suddenly 
interrupted  him  : 

"And  how  do  you  know,"  said  he  mildly, 
"  whether  Jean  Jacques  would  not  exchange  the  rep- 
utation which  you  seem  to  envy  for  the  life  of  one 
of  the  wood-cutters  whose  chimney's  smoke  we  see  ? 
What  has  fame  brought  him  except  persecution? 
The  unknown  friends  whom  his  books  may  have 
made  for  him  content  themselves  with  blessing  him 
in  their  hearts,  while  the  declared  enemies  that  they 
have  drawn  upon  him  pursue  him  with  violence  and 
calumny  !  His  pride  has  been  flattered  by  success  : 
how  many  times  has  it  been  wounded  by  satire  ? 
And  be  assured  that  human  pride  is  like  the  Syba- 
rite who  was  prevented  from  sleeping  by  a  crease 
in  a  rose-leaf.  The  activity  of  a  vigorous  mind,  by 
which  the  world  profits,  almost  always  turns  against 
him  who  possesses  it.  He  expects  more  from  it  as 
he  grows  older  ;  the  ideal  he  pursues  continually 
disgusts  him  with  the  actual ;  he  is  like  a  man  who, 
with  a  too-refined  sight,  discerns  spots  and  blem- 
ishes in  the  most  beautiful  face.  I  will  not  speak 
of  stronger  temptations  and  of  deeper  downfalls. 
Genius,  you  have  said,  is  a  kingdom ;  but  what 
virtuous  man  is  not  afraid  of  being  a  king  ?  He 
who  feels  only  his  great  powers  is — with  the 
weaknesses  and  passions  of  our  nature — preparing 
for  great  failures.  Believe  me,  sir,  the  unhappy 
man  who  wrote  this  book  is  no  object  of  admiration 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  95 

or  of  envy  ;  but  if  you  have  a  feeling  heart  pity 
him !" 

My  father,  astonished  at  the  excitement  with 
which  his  companion  pronounced  these  last  words, 
did  not  know  what  to  answer. 

Just  then  they  reached  the  paved  road  which  led 
from  Meudon  castle  to  that  of  Versailles  ;  a  carriage 
was  passing. 

The  ladies  who  were  in  it  perceived  the  old  man, 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise,  and  leaning  out 
of  the  window  repeated  : 

"  There  is  Jean  Jacques — there  is  Eousseau  1" 

Then  the  carriage  disappeared  in  the  distance. 

My  father  remained  motionless,  confounded, 
and  amazed,  his  eyes  wide  open  and  his  hands 
clasped. 

Eousseau,  who  had  shuddered  on  hearing  his 
name  spoken,  turned  tow^ard  him  : 

"  You  see,"  said  he,  with  the  bitter  misanthropy 
which  his  later  misfortunes  had  produced  in  him, 
"  Jean  Jacques  cannot  even  hide  himself  ;  he  is  an 
object  of  curiosity  to  some,  of  malignity  to  others, 
and  to  all  he  is  a  public  thing,  at  which  they  point 
the  finger.  It  would  signif}^  less  if  he  had  only  to 
submit  to  the  impertinence  of  the  idle ;  but  as  soon 
as  a  man  has  had  the  misfortune  to  make  himself  a 
name  he  becomes  public  property.  Every  one  rakes 
into  his  life,  relates  his  most  trivial  actions,  and  in- 
sults his  feelings ;  he  becomes  like  those  walls 
which  every  passer-by  may  deface  with  some  abu- 
sive writing.    Perhaps  you  will  say  that  I  have  my- 


96  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

self  encouraged  this  curiosity  by  publishing  my 
'  Memoirs.'  But  the  world  forced  me  to  it.  They 
loolvcd  into  my  house  through  the  blinds  and  they 
slandered  me  ;  I  have  opened  the  doors  and  win- 
dows, so  that  they  should  at  least  know  me  such  as 
I  am.  Adieu,  sir.  Whenever  you  wish  to  know 
the  worth  of  fame,  remember  that  you  have  seen 
Rousseau." 

Nine  0"^ clock. — Ah  !  now  I  understand  my  father's 
story  !  It  contains  the  answer  to  one  of  the  ques- 
tions I  asked  myself  a  week  ago.  Yes,  I  now  feel 
that  fame  and  power  are  gifts  that  are  dearly 
bought ;  and  that  when  they  dazzle  the  soul  both 
of  them  are  oftenest,  as  Madame  de  Stael  says,  but 
"  un  deuil  eclatant  de  bonheur  !"  * 

*  'Tis  better  to  be  lowly  born, 
And  range  with  humble  livers  in  content, 
Than  to  be  perk'd  up  in  a  glistering  grief, 
And  wear  a  golden  sorrow. 

—Henry  VIIL,  Act  11. ,  Scene  3. 


AK  ATTIC  PHlLOSOPEEn  IN  PARIS.  97 


CHAPTEE  YIII. 

MISANTHROPY    AND    REPENTANCE. 

Aiigiost  ?>d,  Nine  O'clock  P.M. — The  reare  days 
when  everything  appears  gloomy  to  us ;  the  world 
is,  like  the  sky,  covered  by  a  dark  fog.  Nothing 
seems  in  its  place  ;  we  only  see  misery,  improvi- 
dence, and  cruelt}^ ;  the  world  seems  without  God 
and  given  up  to  all  the  evils  of  chance. 

Yesterday  I  was  in  this  unhappy  humor.  After 
a  long  walk  in  the  faubourgs  I  returned  home,  sad 
and  dispirited. 

Everything  I  had  seen  seemed  to  accuse  the 
civilization  of  which  we  are  so  proud !  I  had  wan- 
dered into  a  little  by  street,  with  which  I  was  not 
acquainted,  and  I  found  myself  suddenly  in  the 
middle  of  those  dreadful  abodes  where  the  poor  are 
born,  languish,  and  die.  I  looked  at  those  decaying 
walls  which  time  has  covered  with  a  foul  leprosy ; 
those  windows  from  which  dirty  rags  hang  out  to 
dry  ;  those  fetid  gutters  which  coil  along  the  fronts 
of  the  houses  like  venomous  reptiles !  I  felt  op- 
pressed with  grief  and  hastened  on. 

A  little  further  on  was  I  stopped  by  the  hearse 
of  a  hospital ;  a  dead  man,  nailed  down  in  his  deal 
coffin,  was  going  to  his  last  abode,  without  funeral 


98  A^  ATTIC  PEILOSOPBER  IN  PARIS. 

porap  or  ceremony  and  without  followers.  There 
was  not  here  even  that  last  friend  of  the  outcast — 
the  dog,  which  a  painter  has  introduced  as  the  sole 
attendant  at  the  pauper's  burial !  He  whom  they 
were  preparing  to  commit  to  the  earth  was  going 
to  the  tomb,  as  he  had  lived,  alone ;  doubtless  no 
one  would  be  aware  of  his  end.  In  this  great  bat- 
tle of  society,  what  signifies  a  soldier  the  less? 

But  what,  then,  is  this  human  society,  if  one  of  its 
members  can  thus  disappear  like  a  leaf  carried  away 
by  the  wind  ? 

The  hospital  was  near  a  barrack,  at  the  entrance 
of  which  old  men,  women,  and  children  were  quar- 
reling for  the  remains  of  the  coarse  bread  which  the 
soldiers  had  given  them  in  charity  !  Thus  beings 
like  ourselves  daily  wait  in  destitution  on  our  com- 
passion till  we  give  them  leave  to  live!  Whole 
troops  of  outcasts,  in  addition  to  the  trials  imposed 
on  all  God's  children,  have  to  endure  the  pangs  of 
cold,  hunger,  and  humiliation.  Unhappy  human 
commonwealth !  where  man  is  in  a  worse  condition 
than  the  bee  in  its  hive  or  the  ant  in  its  subterra- 
nean city  ! 

Ah !  what,  then  avails  our  reason  ?  What  is  the 
good  of  so  many  high  faculties  if  we  are  neither 
the  wiser  nor  the  happier  for  them  ?  Which  of  us 
would  not  exchange  his  life  of  labor  and  trouble 
with  that  of  the  birds  of  the  air,  to  whom  the  whole 
world  is  a  life  of  joy  ? 

How  well  I  understand  the  complaint  of  Mao,  in 
the  popular  tales  of  the  "  Foyer  Breton,"  who,  when 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  99 

dying  of  hunger  and  thirst,  says,  as  he  looks  at  the 
bullfinches  rifling  the  fruit-trees: 

"Alas  !  those  birds  are  happier  than  Christians  ; 
they  have  no  need  of  inns,  or  butchers,  or  bakers, 
or  gardeners.  God's  heaven  belongs  to  them,  and 
earth  spreads  a  continual  feast  before  them  !  The 
tiny  flies  are  their  game,  ripe  grass  their  corn-fields, 
and  hips  and  haws  their  store  of  fruit.  They  have 
the  right  of  taking  everywhere  without  paying  or 
asking  leave  :  thus  comes  it  that  the  little  birds  are 
happy  and  sing  all  the  livelong  day  !" 

But  the  life  of  man  in  a  natural  state  is  like  that 
of  the  birds  ;  he  equally  enjoys  nature.  "  The  earth 
spreads  a  continual  feast  before  him."  What,  then, 
has  he  gained  by  that  selfish  and  imperfect  associa- 
tion which  forms  a  nation  ?  Would  it  not  be  better 
for  ever}^  one  to  return  again  to  the  fertile  bosom 
of  Xature,  and  live  there  upon  her  bounty  in  peace 
and  liberty  ? 

August  lOthf  Four  G^ clock  P.M. — The  dawn  casts 
a  red  glow  on  my  bed-curtains ;  the  breeze  brings 
in  the  fragrance  of  the  gardens  below.  Here  I  am 
again  leaning  on  my  elbows  by  the  window,  inlialing 
the  freshness  and  gladness  of  this  first  wakening  of 
the  day. 

JVIy  e^^e  always  passes  over  the  roofs  filled  with 
flowers,  w^arbling.  and  sunlight,  with  the  same 
pleasure  ;  but  to-day  it  stops  at  the  end  of  a  buttress 
which  separates  our  house  from  tiie  next.  The 
storms  have  stripped  the  top  of  its  plaster  covering, 
and  dust  carried  by  the  wind  has  collected  in   the 


100  ^^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

crevices,  and,  being  fixed  there  by  the  rain, 
has  formed  a  sort  of  aerial  terrace,  where  some 
green  grass  has  sprung  up.  Among  it  rises  a  stalk 
of  wheat,  which  to-day  is  surmounted  by  a  sickly 
ear  that  droops  its  yellow  head. 

This  poor  stray  crop  on  the  roofs,  the  harvest  of 
which  will  fall  to  the  neighboring  sparrows,  has 
carried  my  thoughts  to  the  rich  crops  which  are 
now  falling  beneath  the  sickle  ;  it  has  recalled  to  me 
the  beautiful  walks  I  took  as  a  child  through  my 
native  province,  when  the  threshing-floors  at  the 
farm-houses  resounded  from  every  part  with  the 
sound  of  the  flail,  and  when  the  carts,  loaded  with 
golden  sheaves,  came  in  by  all  the  roads.  I  still  re- 
member the  songs  of  the  maidens,  the  cheerfulness 
of  the  old  men,  the  open-hearted  merriment  of  the 
laborers.  There  was,  at  that  time,  something  in 
their  looks  both  of  pride  and  feeling.  The  latter 
came  from  thankfulness  to  God,  the  former  from 
the  sight  of  the  harvest,  the  reward  of  their  labor. 
They  felt  indistinctly  the  grandeur  and  the  holiness 
of  their  part  in  the  general  work  of  the  world ;  they 
looked  with  pride  upon  their  mountains  of  corn 
sheaves,  and  they  seemed  to  say,  Next  to  God,  it  is 
we  who  feed  the  world  ! 

What  a  wonderful  order  there  is  in  all  human 
labor !  While  the  husbandman  furrows  his  land 
and  prepares  for  every  one  his  daily  bread,  the  town 
artisan,  far  away,  weaves  the  stuff  in  which  he  is  to 
be  clothed ;  the  miner  seeks  under  ground  the  iron 
for  his  plow ;  the  soldier  defends  him  against  the  in- 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  m  PAJi'M^ '  >  ;  \^l$ll'  ]  ,\ 

vader ;  the  judge  takes  care  that  the  law  protects 
his  fields  ;  the  tax-comptroller  adjusts  his  private 
interests  with  those  of  the  public ;  the  merchant  oc- 
cupies himself  in  exchanging  his  products  with 
those  of  distant  countries ;  the  men  of  science  and 
of  art  add  every  day  a  few  horses  to  this  ideal  team, 
which  draws  along  the  material  world  as  steam  im- 
pels the  gigantic  trains  of  our  iron  roads !  Thus  all 
unite  together,  all  help  one  another ;  the  toil  of  each 
one  benefits  himself  and  all  the  world ;  the  work 
has  been  apportioned  among  the  different  members 
of  the  whole  of  society  by  a  tacit  agreement.  If, 
in  this  apportionment,  errors  are  committed,  if  cer- 
tain individuals  have  not  been  employed  according 
to  their  capacities,  these  defects  of  detail  diminish 
in  the  sublime  conception  of  the  whole.  The  poor- 
est man  included  in  this  association  has  his  place, 
his  work,  his  reason  for  being  there ;  each  is  some- 
thing in  the  whole. 

There  is  nothing  like  this  for  man  in  the  state  of 
nature.  As  he  depends  only  upon  himself,  it  is 
necessary  that  he  be  sufficient  for  everything.  All 
creation  is  his  property  ;  but  he  finds  in  it  as  many 
hindrances  as  helps.  He  must  surmount  these  ob- 
stacles with  the  single  strength  that  God  has  given 
him  ;  he  cannot  reckon  on  any  other  aid  than  chance 
and  opportunity.  Ko  one  reaps,  manufactures, 
fights,  or  thinks  for  him  ;  he  is  nothing  to  an}^  one. 
He  is  a  unit  multiplied  by  the  cipher  of  his  own 
single  powers ;  Avhile  the  civilized  man  is  a  unit 
multiplied  by  the  powers  of  the  whole  of  society. 


lOS  ^A'N'  li TTIC  PHTLOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

Yet  notwithstanding  this,  the  other  day,  disgust- 
ed by  the  sight  of  some  vices  in  detail,  I  cursed  the 
latter  and  almost  envied  the  life  of  the  savae'e. 

One  of  the  infirmities  of  our  nature  is  always  to 
mistake  feelmg  for  evidence  and  to  judge  of  the 
season  b}^  a  cloud  or  a  ray  of  sunshine. 

Was  the  misery,  the  sight  of  which  made  me  re- 
gret a  savage  life,  really  the  effect  of  civilization  ? 
Must  we  accuse  society  of  having  created  these  evils, 
or  acknowledge,  on  the  contrary,  that  it  has  al- 
leviated them  ?  Could  the  women  and  children 
who  w^ere  receiving  the  coarse  bread  from  the  sol- 
diers hope  in  the  desert  for  more  help  or  pity?  That 
dead  man,  whose  forsaken  state  I  deplored,  had  he 
not  found,  by  the  cares  of  a  hospital,  a  coffin  and 
the  humble  grave  where  he  was  about  to  rest? 
Alone,  and  far  from  men,  he  would  have  died  like 
the  wild  beast  in  his  den  and  would  now  be  serving  as 
food  for  vultures  !  These  benefits  of  human  society 
are  shared,  then,  by  the  most  destitute.  Whoever 
eats  the  bread  that  another  has  reaped  and  knead- 
ed is  under  an  obligation  to  his  brother  and  cannot 
say  he  owes  him  nothing  in  return.  The  poorest  of 
us  has  received  from  society  much  more  than  his 
own  single  strength  would  have  permitted  him  to 
wrest  from  nature. 

But  cannot  society  give  us  more  ?  Who  doubts 
it  ?  Errors  have  been  committed  in  this  distribution 
of  tasks  and  workers.  Time  will  diminish  the 
number  of  them  ;  with  new  lights  a  better  division 
will  arise  ;  the  elements  of  society  go  on  toward 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  BIS.  103 

perfection,  like  ever3^thing  else.  The  difficulty  is  to 
know  how  to  adapt  ourselves  to  the  slow  step  of 
time,  whose  progress  can  never  be  forced  on  with- 
out danger. 

Angud  14:th,  Six  O'clock  P. 31. — My  garret  w^indow 
rises  upon  the  roof  like  a  massive  watch-tower.  The 
corners  are  covered  by  large  sheets  of  lead,  which 
run  into  the  tiles  ;  the  successive  action  of  cold  and 
heat  has  made  them  rise,  and  so  a  crevice  has  been 
formed  in  an  angle  on  the  right  side.  There  a 
sparrow  has  built  her  nest. 

I  have  followed  the  progress  of  this  aerial  habita- 
tion from  the  first  day.  I  have  seen  the  bird  suc- 
cessively bring  the  straw,  moss,  and  wool  designed 
for  the  construction  of  her  abode  ;  and  I  have  ad- 
mired the  persevering  skill  she  expended  in  this 
difficult  work.  At  first,  my  new  neighbor  spent 
her  days  in  fluttering  over  the  poplar  in  the  garden 
and  in  chirping  along  the  gutters ;  a  fine  lady's  life 
seemed  the  only  one  to  suit  her.  Then,  all  of  a 
sudden,  the  necessity  of  preparing  a  shelter  for  her 
brood  transformed  our  idler  into  a  worker ;  she  no 
longer  gave  herself  either  rest  or  relaxation.  I 
saw  her  always  either  flying,  fetching,  or  carrying  ; 
neither  rain  nor  sun  stopped  her.  A  striking  ex- 
ample of  the  power  of  necessity  !  We  are  not  only 
indebted  to  it  for  most  of  our  talents,  but  for  many 
of  our  virtues ! 

Is  it  not  necessity  which  has  giv^en  the  people  of 
less  favored  climates  that  constant  activity  which 
has  placed  them  so  quickly  at  the  head  of  nations  ? 


104  AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

As  they  are  deprived  of  most  of  the  gifts  of  nature, 
they  have  supphed  them  by  their  industry ;  neces- 
sity has  sharpened  their  understanding,  endurance 
awakened  their  foresight.  While  elsewhere  man, 
warmed  by  an  ever-brilliant  sun  and  loaded  with 
the  bounties  of  the  earth,  was  remaining  poor, 
ignorant,  and  naked,  in  the  midst  of  gifts  he  did 
not  attempt  to  explore,  here  he  was  forced  by 
necessity  to  wrest  his  food  from  the  ground,  to 
build  habitations  to  defend  himself  from  the  m- 
temperance  of  the  weather,  and  to  warm  his  body 
by  clothing  himself  with  the  wool  of  animals. 
"Work  makes  him  both  more  intelligent  and  more 
robust :  disciplined  by  it,  he  seems  to  mount  higher 
on  the  ladder  of  creation,  while  those  more  favored 
by  nature  remain  on  the  step  the  nearest  to  the 
brutes. 

I  made  these  reflections  while  looking  at  the  bird, 
whose  instinct  seemed  to  have  become  more  acute 
since  she  had  been  occupied  in  work.  At  last  the 
nest  was  linished  ;  she  set  up  her  household  there, 
and  I  followed  her  through  all  the  phases  of  her 
new  existence. 

When  she  had  sat  on  the  eggs  and  the  young 
ones  were  hatched,  she  fed  them  with  the  most  at- 
tentive care.  The  corner  of  my  window  had  be- 
come a  stage  of  moral  action,  which  fathers  and 
mothers  might  come  to  take  lessons  from.  The  lit- 
tle ones  soon  became  great,  and  this  morning  I  have 
seen  them  take  their  first  flight.  One  of  them, 
weaker  than  the  others,  was  not  able  to  clear  the 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  105 

edge  of  the  roof  and  fell  into  the  gutter.  I  caught 
hira  with  some  difficulty  and  placed  him  again  on 
the  tile  in  front  of  his  house,  but  the  mother  has 
not  noticed  him.  Once  freed  from  the  cares  of  a 
family,  she  has  resumed  her  wandering  life  among 
the  trees  and  along  the  roofs.  In  vain  I  have  kept 
away  from  my  window,  to  take  from  her  every  ex- 
cuse for  fear ;  in  vain  the  feeble  little  bird  has  called 
to  her  with  plaintive  cries ;  his  bad  mother  has 
passed  by  singing  and  fluttering  with  a  thousand 
airs  and  graces.  Once  only  the  father  came  near  ; 
he  looked  at  his  offspring  with  contempt  and  then 
disappeared  never  to  return  ! 

I  crumbled  some  bread  before  the  little  orphan, 
but  he  did  not  know  how  to  peck  it  with  his  bill. 
I  tried  to  catch  him,  but  he  escaped  into  the  for- 
saken nest.  What  will  become  of  him  there  if  his 
mother  does  not  come  back  ! 

August  16ihy  Six  O^dock. — This  morning,  on 
opening  my  window,  I  found  the  little  bird  dying 
upon  the  tiles  ;  his  wounds  showed  rae  that  he  had 
been  driven  from  the  nest  by  his  unworthy  mother. 
I  tried  in  vain  to  warm  him  again  with  my  breath ; 
I  felt  the  last  pulsations  of  life ;  his  eyes  were 
already  closed  and  his  wings  hung  down  !  I  placed 
him  on  the  roof  in  a  ray  of  sunshine  and  closed  my 
window.  The  struo^oie  of  life  ao^ainst  death  has  al- 
ways  something  gloomy  in  it:  it  is  a  warning  tons. 

Happily  I  hear  some  one  in  the  passage  ;  with- 
out doubt  it  is  my  old  neighbor  ;  his  conversation 
will  distract  my  thoughts. 


106  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

It  was  my  portress.  Excellent  woman !  She 
wished  me  to  read  a  letter  from  her  son  the  sailor, 
and  begged  me  to  answer  it  for  her. 

I  kept  it,  to  copy  it  in  my  journal.     Here  it  is  : 


"  Dear  Mother  :  This  is  to  tell  you  that  I  have 
been  very  well  ever  since  the  last  time,  except  that 
last  week  I  was  nearly  drowned  witli  the  boat, 
which  would  have  been  a  great  loss,  as  there  is  not 
a  better  craft  anywhere. 

"  A  gust  of  wind  capsized  us ;  and  just  as  I  came 
up  above  water,  I  saw  the  captain  sinking.  I  went 
after  him,  as  was  my  duty,  and,  after  diving  three 
times,  I  brought  him  to  the  surface,  which  pleased 
Ymw  much  ;  for  when  Ave  were  hoisted  on  board  and 
he  had  recovered  his  senses,  he  threw  his  arms 
round  my  neck,  as  he  would  have  done  to  an 
officer. 

"  I  do  not  hide  from  you,  dear  mother,  that  this 
has  delighted  me.  But  it  isn't  all ;  it  seems  that 
fishing  up  the  captain  has  reminded  them  that  I  had 
a  good  character,  and  they  have  just  told  me  that  I 
am  promoted  to  be  a  sailor  of  the  first  class ! 
Directly  I  knew  it,  I  cried  out,  '  My  mother  shall 
have  coffee  twice  a  day  !'  And  really,  dear  mother, 
there  is  nothing  now  to  hinder  you,  as  I  shall  now 
have  a  larg-er  allowance  to  send  you. 

"  I  conclude  by  begging  you  to  take  care  of  your- 
self if  you  wish  to  do  me  good ;  for  nothing  makes 
me  feel  so  well  as  to  think  that  3^ou  want  for  noth- 
ing. 

"  Your  son,  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 

"  Jacques." 

This  is  the  answer  that  the  portress  dictated  to 
me ; 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  107 

"My  Good  Jacquot  :  It  makes  me  very  happy  to 
see  that  your  heart  is  still  as  true  as  ever,  and  that 
you  will  never  shame  those  who  have  brought  you 
up.  I  need  not  tell  you  to  take  care  of  your  life, 
because  you  know  it  is  the  same  as  my  own,  and 
that  Avithout  you,  dear  child,  I  should  wish  for 
nothing  but  the  grave ;  but  we  are  not  bound  to 
live,  while  we  are  bound  to  do  our  duty. 

"  Do  not  fear  for  my  health,  good  Jacques  ;  I 
was  never  better !  I  do  not  grow  old  at  all,  for 
fear  of  making  you  unhapp3^  I  want  nothing,  and 
I  live  like  a  lady.  I  even  had  some  money  over 
this  year,  and  as  my  drawers  shut  very  badly  I  put 
it  into  the  savings  bank,  where  I  have  opened  an 
account  in  3^our  name.  So,  w^ien  you  come  back, 
you  will  find  yourself  w^ith  an  income.  I  have  also 
furnished  your  chest  with  new  linen,  and  I  have 
knitted  you  three  new  sea-jackets. 

"All  your  friends  are  w^ell.  Your  cousin  is  just 
dead,  leaving  his  widow  in  difficulties.  I  gave  her 
your  30  francs  remittance,  and  said  that  you  had 
sent  it  her ;  and  the  poor  woman  remembers  you  day 
and  night  in  her  prayers.  So,  you  see,  I  have  put 
that  money  in  another  sort  of  savings  bank ;  but 
there  it  is  our  hearts  which  get  the  interest. 

"  Good-by,  dear  Jacquot.  AVrite  to  me  often,  and 
ahvays  remember  the  good  God  and  your  old 
mother,  Phkosine  Millot." 


Good  son  and  worthy  mother!  how  such  exam- 
ples bring  us  back  to  a  love  for  the  human  race ! 
In  a  fit  of  fanciful  misanthropy  we  may  envy  the 
fate  of  the  savage  and  prefer  that  of  the  bird  to 
such  as  he ;  but  impartial  observation  soon  does 
justice  to  such  paradoxes.     We  find,  on  examina- 


108  AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

tion,  that  in  the  mixed  good  and  evil  of  human 
nature,  the  good  so  far  abounds  that  we  are  not  in  the 
habit  of  noticing  it,  while  the  evil  strikes  us  pre- 
cisely on  account  of  its  being  the  exception.  If 
nothing  is  perfect,  nothing  is  so  bad  as  to  be 
without  its  compensation  or  its  remedy.  What 
spiritual  riches  are  there  in  the  midst  of  the  evils  of 
society !  how  much  does  the  moral  world  redeem 
the  material ! 

That  which  will  ever  distinguish  man  from  the 
rest  of  creation  is  his  power  of  deliberate  affection 
and  of  enduring  self-sacrifice.  The  mother  who 
took  care  of  her  brood  in  the  corner  of  my  window 
devoted  to  them  the  necessary  time  for  accomplish- 
ing the  laws  which  insure  the  preservation  of  her 
kind ;  but  she  obeyed  an  instinct  and  not  a  rational 
choice.  When  she  had  accomplished  the  mission 
appointed  her  by  Providence  she  cast  off  the  duty  as 
we  get  rid  of  a  burden,  and  she  returned  again  to  her 
selfish  liberty.  The  other  mother,  on  the  contrary, 
will  go  on  with  her  task  as  long  as  God  shall  leave 
her  here  below  :  the  life  of  her  son  will  still  remain, 
so  to  speak,  joined  to  her  own  ;  and  when  she  dis- 
appears from  the  earth  she  will  leave  there  that 
part  of  herself. 

Thus  the  affections  make  for  our  species  an  exist- 
ence separate  from  all  the  rest  of  creation.  Thanks 
to  them,  we  enjoy  a  sort  of  terrestrial  immortality  ; 
and  if  other  beings  succeed  one  another,  man  alone 
perpetuates  himself. 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  109 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  FAMILY  OF  MICHAEL  AROrT. 

SeptemherlUh^  Eight  G^ clock. — This  morning  while 
I  was  arranging  my  books  Mother  Genevieve  came 
in  and  brought  me  the  basket  of  fruit  I  buy  of  her 
every  Sunday.  For  nearly  twenty  years  that  I 
have  lived  in  this  quarter  I  have  dealt  in  her  little 
fruit-shop.  Perhaps  I  should  be  better  served  else- 
where, but  Mother  Genevieve  has  but  little  custom  ; 
to  leave  her  would  do  her  harm  and  cause  her  un- 
necessary pain.  It  seems  to  me  that  the  length  of 
our  acquaintance  has  made  me  incur  a  sort  of  tacit 
obligation  to  her ;  1113^  patronage  has  become  her 
property. 

She  has  put  the  basket  upon  my  table,  and  as  I 
wanted  her  husband,  who  is  a  joiner,  to  add  some 
shelves  to  my  bookcase,  she  has  gone  downstairs 
again  immediately  to  send  him  to  me. 

At  first  I  did  not  notice  either  her  looks  or  the 
sound  of  her  voice :  but,  now  that  I  recall  them, 
it  seems  to  me  that  she  was  not  as  jovial  as  usual. 
Can  Mother  Genevieve  be  in  trouble  about  any- 
thing ? 

Poor  woman !  All  her  best  years  were  subject 
to  such  bitter  trials  that  she  might  think  she  had 


110  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

received  her  full  share  already.  Were  I  to  live  a 
hundred  years  I  should  never  forget  the  circum- 
stances which  first  made  her  known  to  me  and 
which  obtained  her  my  respect. 

It  was  at  the  time  of  my  first  settling  in  the  fau- 
bourg. I  had  noticed  her  empty  fruit-shop,  which 
nobody  came  into,  and  being  attracted  by  its  for- 
saken appearance  I  made  my  little  purchases  in  it. 
I  have  always  instinctively  preferred  the  poor 
shops;  there  is  less  choice  in  them,  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  my  purchase  is  a  sign  of  sympathy  with  a 
brother  in  poverty.  These  little  dealings  are 
almost  always  an  anchor  of  hope  to  those  whose 
very  existence  is  in  peril — the  only  means  by  which 
some  orphan  gains  a  livelihood.  There  the  aim  of 
the  tradesman  is  not  to  enrich  himself,  but  to  live ! 
The  purchase  you  make  of  him  is  more  than  an 
exchange — it  is  a  good  action. 

Mother  Genevieve  at  that  time  was  still  young, 
but  had  already  lost  that  fresh  bloom  of  youth 
which  suffering  causes  to  wither  so  soon  among  the 
poor.  Her  husband,  a  clever  joiner,  gradually  left 
off  working  to  become,  according  to  the  picturesque 
expression  of  the  workshops,  "a  worshiper  of  Saint 
Monday."  The  wages  of  the  week,  which  was 
always  reduced  to  two  or  three  working  days,  were 
completely  dedicated  by  him  to  the  worship  of  this 
god  of  the  EarrierS;"^^  and  Genevieve  was  obliged 
herself  to  provide  for  all  the  wants  of  the  house- 
hold. 

*  The  cheap  wine-shops  are  outside  the   Barriers,  to  avoid 
the  octroi^  or  municipal  excise. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  HI 

One  evening,  when  I  went  to  make  some  trifling 
purchases  of  her,  I  heard  a  sound  of  quarreling  in 
the  back  shop.  There  were  the  voices  of  several 
women,  among  which  I  distinguished  that  of  Gene- 
vieve, broken  by  sobs.  On  looking  further  in,  1 
perceived  the  fruit-woman  with  a  child  in  her  arms, 
and  kissing  it,  while  a  country  nurse  seemed  to  be 
claiming  her  wages  from  her.  The  poor  woman, 
who  without  doubt  had  exhausted  every  explanation 
and  every  excuse,  was  crying  in  silence,  and  one  of 
her  neighbors  was  trying  in  vain  to  appease  the 
country  woman.  Excited  by  that  love  of  money 
which  the  evils  of  a  hard  peasant  life  but  too  well 
excuse,  and  disappointed  by  the  refusal  of  her  ex- 
pected wages,  the  nurse  was  launching  forth  in 
recriminations,  threats,  and  abuse.  In  spite  of  my- 
self, I  listened  to  the  quarrel,  not  daring  to  inter- 
fere, and  not  thinking  of  going  away,  when  Michael 
Arout  appeared  at  the  shop-door. 

The  joiner  had  just  come  from  the  Barrier,  where 
he  had  passed  part  of  the  day  at  the  public-house. 
His  blouse,  without  a  belt  and  untied  at  the  throat, 
showed  none  of  the  noble  stains  of  work  :  in  his 
hand  he  held  his  cap,  which  he  had  just  picked  up 
out  of  the  mud ;  his  hair  was  in  disorder,  his  eye 
fixed,  and  the  pallor  of  drunkenness  in  his  face.  He 
came  reeling  in,  looked  wildly  around  him,  and 
called  Genevieve. 

She  heard  his  voice,  gave  a  start,  and  rushed  into 
the  shop ;  but  at  the  sight  of  the  miserable  man, 
who  was    trying    in   vain   to   steady  himself,   she 


112  Air  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

pressed  the  child  in  her  arms  and  bent  over  it 
with  tears. 

The  country  woman  and  the  neighbor  had  fol- 
lowed her. 

"  Come !  come !  do  you  intend  to  pay  me,  after 
all  ?"  cried  the  former  in  a  rage. 

"Ask  the  master  for  the  money,"  ironically  an- 
swered the  woman  from  the  next  door,  pointing 
to  the  joiner,  who  had  just  fallen  against  the 
counter. 

The  country  woman  looked  at  him. 

"Ah!  he  is  the  father,*'  returned  she.  "Well, 
what  idle  beggars !  not  to  have  a  penny  to  pay 
honest  people,  and  get  tipsy  with  wine  in  that 
way." 

The  drunkard  raised  his  head. 

"  What !  what !"  stammered  he ;  "  who  is  it  that 
talks  of  wine  ?  I've  had  nothing  but  brandy  !  But 
I  am  going  back  again  to  get  some  wine !  Wife, 
give  me  your  money ;  there  are  some  friends  wait- 
ing for  me  at  the  I^ere  la  Tuille.^'^ 

Genevieve  did  not  answer :  he  w^ent  round  the 
counter,  opened  the  till,  and  began  to  rummage 
in  it. 

"  You  see  where  the  money  of  the  house  goes !" 
observed  the  neighbor  to  the  country  woman  ;  "  how 
can  the  poor  unhappy  woman  pay  you  when  he 
takes  all?" 

"  Is  that  my  fault  ?"  replied  the  nurse  angrily. 
**They  owe  it  to  me  and  somehow  or  other  they 
must  pay  me !" 


AN  A TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  113 

And  letting  loose  her  tongue,  as  those  women  out 
of  the  country  do,  she  began  relating  at  length  all 
the  care  she  had  taken  of  the  child  and  all  the  ex- 
pense it  had  been  to  her.  In  proportion  as  she 
recalled  all  she  had  done,  her  words  seemed  to  con- 
vince her  more  than  ever  of  her  rights  and  to 
increase  her  anger.  The  poor  mother,  who  no 
doubt  feared  that  her  violence  would  frighten  the 
cliild,  returned  into  the  back  shop  and  put  it  into 
its  cradle. 

Whether  it  is  that  the  country  woman  saw  in  this 
act  a  determination  to  escape  her  claims,  or  that  she 
was  blinded  by  passion,  I  cannot  say  ;  but  she 
rushed  into  the  next  room,  where  I  heard  the  sounds 
of  quarreling,  with  which  the  cries  of  the  child  were 
soon  mingled.  The  joiner,  who  was  still  rum- 
maging in  the  till,  was  startled  and  raised  his 
head. 

At  the  same  moment  Genevieve  appeared  at  the 
door,  holding  in  her  arms  the  baby  that  the 
country  woman  was  trying  to  tear  from  her.  She 
ran  toward  the  counter,  and  throwing  herself  be- 
hind her  husband  cried  : 

"  Michael,  defend  your  son  !" 

The  drunken  man  quickly  stood  up  erect,  like  one 
who  awakes  with  a  start. 

"  My  son !"  stammered  he  ;  "  what  son  ?" 

His  looks  fell  upon  the  child ;  a  vague  ray  of  in- 
telligence passed  over  his  features. 

"  Robert,"  resumed  he  ;  "  it  is  Robert !" 

He  tried  to  steady  himself  on  his  feet,  that  he 


114  Ali  ATTIG  PEILOtiOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

might  take  the  baby,  but  he  tottered.     The  nurse 
approached  him  in  a  rage. 

"  My  money,  or  I  shall  take  the  child  away  !" 
cried  she.  "  It  is  I  who  have  fed  and  brought  it 
up  :  if  you  don't  pay  me  for  what  has  made  it  live, 
it  ought  to  be  the  same  to  you  as  if  it  were  dead.  I 
shall  not  go  until  I  have  my  due  or  the  baby." 

"And  what  would  do  with  him?"  murmured 
Genevieve,  pressing  Robert  against  her  bosom. 

"  Take  it  to  the  Foundling  !"  replied  the  coun- 
try Avoman  harshly ;  "  the  hospital  is  a  better 
mother  than  you  are,  for  it  pays  for  the  food  of  its 
little  ones." 

At  the  word  "Foundling,"  Genevieve  had  ex- 
claimed aloud  in  horror.  With  her  arms  wound 
round  her  son,  whose  head  she  hid  in  her  bosom, 
and  her  two  hands  spread  over  him,  she  had  re- 
treated to  the  wall,  and  remained  with  her  back 
against  it,  like  a  lioness  defending  her  young  ones. 
The  neighbor  and  I  contemplated  this  scene,  with- 
out linowing  how  we  could  interfere.  As  for  Mi 
chael,  he  looked  at  us  by  turns,  making  a  visible 
effort  to  comprehend  it  all.  When  his  eye  rested 
upon  Genevieve  and  the  child,  it  lit  up  with  a  gleam 
of  pleasure ;  but  when  he  turned  toward  us,  he 
again  became  stupid  and  hesitating. 

At  last,  apparently  making  a  prodigious  effort,  he 
cried  out,  "  Wait !' 

And  going  to  a  tub  full  of  water,  he  plunged  his 
face  into  it  several  times. 

Every  eye  was  turned  upon  him ;    the  country 


AN  A  TTIG  PniLOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  115 

woman  herself  seemed  astonished.  At  length  he 
raised  his  dripping  head.  This  ablution  had  partly 
dispelled  his  drunkenness ;  he  looked  at  us  for  a 
moment,  then  he  turned  to  Genevieve,  and  his  face 
brightened  up. 

"  Robert !"  cried  he,  going  up  to  the  child  and 
taking  him  in  his  arms.  "  Ah !  give  him  me,  wife  ; 
I  must  look  at  him." 

The  mother  seemed  to  give  up  his  son  to  him 
with  reluctance,  and  stayed  before  him  with  her 
arms  extended,  as  if  she  feared  the  child  would 
have  a  fall.  The  nurse  began  again  in  her  turn  to 
speak,  and  renewed  her  claims,  this  time  threaten- 
ing to  appeal  to  law.  At  first  Michael  listened  to 
her  attentively,  and  when  he  comprehended  her 
meaning  he  gave  the  child  back  to  its  mother. 

"  How  much  do  we  owe  you  ?"  asked  he. 

The  country  woman  began  to  reckon  up  the  dif- 
ferent expenses,  which  amounted  to  nearly  30 
francs.  The  joiner  felt  to  the  bottom  of  his  pock- 
ets, but  could  find  nothing.  Ilis  forehead  became 
contracted  by  frowns ;  low  curses  began  to  escape 
him.  All  of  a  sudden  he  rummaged  in  his  breast, 
drew^  forth  a  large  watch,  and  holding  it  up  above 
his  head — 

"  Here  it  is — here's  your  money  !"  cried  he  with 
a  joyful  laugh  ;  "  a  watch,  number  one  !  I  always 
said  it  would  keep  for  a  drink  on  a  dry  day  ;  but  it 
is  not  I  who  will  drink  it,  but  the  young  one.  Ah! 
ah  !  ah  !  go  and  sell  it  for  me,  neighbor,  and  if  that 
is  not  enough,  I  have  my  earrings.     Eh  !  Genevieve, 


116  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS, 

take  them  off  for  me ;  the  earrings  will  square  all ! 
They  shall  not  say  you  have  been  disgraced  on 
account  of  the  child — no,  not  even  if  I  must  pledge 
a  bit  of  my  fiesh  !  My  watch,  my  earrings,  and  my 
ring — get  rid  of  all  of  them  for  me  at  the  gold- 
smith's ;  pay  the  woman  and  let  the  little  fool  go 
to  sleep.  Give  him  me,  Genevieve  ;  I  will  put  him 
to  bed." 

And  taking  the  baby  from  the  arms  of  his 
mother,  he  carried  him  with  a  firm  step  to  his  cradle. 

It  was  easy  to  perceive  the  change  which  took 
place  in  Michael  from  this  day.  He  cut  all  his  old 
drinking  acquaintances.  He  went  early  every 
morning  to  his  work,  and  returned  regularly  in  the 
evening  to  finish  the  day  with  Genevieve  and 
Robert.  Yery  soon  he  would  not  leave  them  at  all, 
and  he  hired  a  place  near  the  fruit-shop  and  worked 
in  it  on  his  own  account. 

They  would  soon  have  been  able  to  live  in  com- 
fort, had  it  not  been  for  the  expenses  which  the 
child  required.  Everything  was  given  up  to  his 
education.  He  had  gone  through  the  regular  school 
training,  had  studied  mathematics,  drawing,  and  the 
carpenter's  trade,  and  had  only  begun  to  work  a 
few  months  ac]:o.  Till  now,  thev  had  been  exhaust- 
ing  every  resource  which  their  laborious  industry 
could  provide  to  push  him  forward  in  bis  business ; 
but,  happily,  all  these  exertions  had  not  proved  use- 
less :  the  seed  had  brought  forth  its  fruits,  and  the 
days  of  harvest  were  close  by. 

While  I  was  thus  recalling  these  remembrances 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  117 

to  my  mind,  Michael  had  come  in  and  was  occupied 
in  fixing  shelves  where  they  were  wanted. 

During  the  time  I  was  writing  the  notes  of  my 
journal,  I  was  also  scrutinizing  the  joiner. 

The  excesses  of  his  youth  and  the  labor  of  his 
manhood  have  deeply  marked  his  face ;  his  hair  is 
thin  and  gray,  his  shoulders  stooping,  his  legs 
shrunken  and  slightly  bent.  There  seems  a  sort  of 
weight  in  his  whole  being.  His  very  features  have 
an  expression  of  sorrow  and  despondency.  He  an- 
swered my  questions  by  monosyllables,  and  like  a 
man  who  wishes  to  avoid  conversation.  From 
whence  is  this  dejection,  when  one  would  think  he 
had  all  he  could  wish  for  ?     I  should  like  to  know  ! 

Ten  C clock. — Michael  is  just  gone  downstairs 
to  look  for  a  tool  he  has  forgotten.  I  have  at  last 
succeeded  in  drawing  from  him  the  secret  of  his 
and  Genevieve's  sorrow.  Their  son  Robert  is  the 
cause  of  it ! 

]^ot  that  he  has  turned  out  ill  after  all  their  care — 
not  that  he  is  idle  and  dissipated  ;  but  both  were  in 
hopes  he  would  never  leave  them  any  more.  The 
presence  of  the  young  man  was  to  have  renewed 
and  made  glad  their  lives  once  more  ;  his  mother 
counted  the  days,  his  father  prepared  everything 
to  receive  their  dear  associate  in  their  toils  ;  and  at 
the  moment  when  they  were  thus  about  to  be  re- 
paid for  all  their  sacrifices,  Robert  had  suddenly 
informed  them  that  he  had  just  engaged  himself  to 
a  contractor  at  Versailles. 

Every  remonstrance  and  every  prayer  were  use- 


118  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

less  ;  he  brought  forward  the  necessity  of  initiating 
himself  into  all  the  details  of  an  important  contract, 
the  faciUties  he  should  have  in  his  new  position  of 
improving  himself  in  his  trade,  and  the  hopes  he 
had  of  turning  his  i^nowledge  to  advantage.  At 
last,  when  his  mother,  having  come  to  the  end  of 
her  arguments,  began  to  cry,  he  hastily  kissed  her 
and  went  away  that  he  might  avoid  any  further 
remonstrances. 

He  had  been  absent  a  year,  and  there  was  nothing 
to  give  them  hopes  of  his  return.  His  parents 
hardly  saw  him  once  a  month,  and  then  he  only 
stayed  a  few  moments  with  them. 

"  I  have  been  punished  where  I  had  hoped  to  be 
rewarded,"  Michael  said  to  me  just  now.  "  I  had 
wished  for  a  saving  and  industrious  son,  and  God 
has  given  me  an  ambitious  and  avaricious  one !  I 
had  always  said  to  myself  that  when  once  he  was 
grown  up  we  should  have  him  always  with  us,  to 
recall  our  youth  and  to  enliven  our  hearts.  His 
mother  was  always  thinking  of  getting  him  married 
and  having  children  again  to  care  for.  You  know 
women  always  will  busy  themselves  about  others. 
As  for  me,  I  thouo-ht  of  him  workino^  near  mv 
bench  and  singing  his  new  songs ;  for  he  has  learned 
music  and  is  one  of  the  best  singers  at  the  Orpheon. 
A  dream,  sir,  truly  !  Directly  the  bird  was  fledged, 
he  took  to  flight,  and  remembers  neither  father  nor 
mother.  Yesterday,  for  instance,  was  the  day  we 
expected  him ;  he  should  have  come  to  supper  with 
us.    JSTo  Robert  to-dav  either !     He  has  had  some 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAUIS.  119 

plan  to  finish,  or  some  bargain  to  arrange,  and  his 
old  parents  are  put  down  hist  in  the  accounts,  after 
the  customers  and  the  joiner's  work.  Ah !  if  I 
could  have  guessed  kow  it  would  have  turned  out ! 
Fool !  to  have  sacrificed  my  likings  and  ray  money, 
for  nearly  twenty  years,  to  the  education  of  a 
thankless  son !  Was  it  for  this  I  took  the  trouble 
to  cure  myself  of  drinking,  to  break  with  my 
friends,  to  become  an  example  to  the  neighbor- 
hood ?  The  jovial  good  fellow  has  made  a  goose 
of  himself.  Oh !  if  I  had  to  begin  again  !  ]^o, 
no  !  3'ou  see  women  and  children  are  our  bane. 
They  soften  our  hearts ;  they  lead  us  a  life  of 
hope  and  affection  ;  we  pass  a  quarter  of  our  lives 
in  fostering  the  growth  of  a  grain  of  corn  which  is 
to  be  evervthino^  to  us  in  our  old  ao^e,  and  when 

€-■0  o    7 

the  harvest-time  comes — good-night,  the  ear  is 
empty !" 

While  he  was  speaking,  Michael's  voice  be- 
came hoarse,  his  eye  fierce,  and  his  lips  quivered. 
I  wished  to  answer  him,  but  I  could  only  think  of 
commonplace  consolations,  and  I  remained  silent. 
The  joiner  pretended  he  wanted  a  tool  and  left 
me. 

Poor  father !  Ah !  I  know  those  moments  of 
temptation  when  virtue  has  failed  to  re^vard  us  and 
we  regret  having  obeyed  her  !  Who  has  not  felt 
this  weakness  in  hours  of  trial,  and  who  has  not 
uttered,  at  least  once,  the  mournful  exclamation  of 
Brutus? 

But  if  virtue  is  only  a  word,  what  is  there  then 


120  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAMIS. 

in  life  which  is  true  and  real  ?  No,  I  will  not  be- 
lieve that  goodness  is  in  vain  !  It  does  not  always 
give  the  happiness  we  had  hoped  for,  but  it  brings 
some  other.  In  the  world  everything  is  ruled  by 
order  and  has  its  proper  and  necessary  conse- 
quences, and  virtue  cannot  be  the  sole  exception  to 
the  general  law.  If  it  had  been  prejudicial  to  those 
who  practice  it,  experience  w^ould  have  avenged 
them  ;  but  experience  has,  on  the  contrary,  made  it 
more  universal  and  more  holy.  We  only  accuse  it 
of  being  a  faithless  debtor  because  we  demand  an 
immediate  payment,  and  one  apparent  to  our  senses. 
We  always  consider  life  as  a  fairy  tale,  in  which 
every  good  action  must  be  rewarded  by  a  visible 
wonder.  We  do  not  accept  as  payment  a  peaceful 
conscience,  self-content,  or  a  good  name  among 
men — treasures  that  are  more  precious  than  any 
other,  but  the  value  of  which  we  do  not  feel  till 
after  we  have  lost  them ! 

Michael  is  come  back  and  returned  to  his  work. 
His  son  had  not  yet  arrived. 

By  telling  me  of  his  hopes  and  his  grievious  dis- 
appointments, he  became  excited ;  he  unceasingly 
went  over  again  the  same  subject,  always  adding 
something  to  his  griefs.  He  has  just  wound  up  his 
confidential  discourse  by  speaking  to  me  of  a  joiners 
business  which  he  had  hoped  to  buy  and  work  to 
good  account  with  Robert's  help.  The  present 
owner  had  made  a  fortune  by  it,  and  after  thirty 
years  of  business  he  was  thinking  of  retiring  to  one 
of  the  ornamental  cottages  in  the  outskirts  of  the 


AN  A  TTIO  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  IIIS.  121 

city,  a  usual  retreat  for  the  frugal  and  successful 
workingman.  Michael  had  not  indeed  the  2,000 
francs  which  must  be  paid  down;  but  perhaps 
he  could  have  persuaded  Master  Benoit  to  wait. 
Eobert's  presence  would  have  been  a  security  for 
him,  for  the  young  man  could  not  fail  to  insure 
the  prosperity  of  a  workshop;  besides  science  and 
skill,  he  had  the  power  of  invention  and  bringing  to 
perfection.  His  father  had  discovered  among  his 
drawings  a  new  plan  for  a  staircase,  which  had 
occupied  his  thoughts  for  a  long  time  ;  and  he  even 
suspected  him  of  having  engaged  himself  to  the 
Yersailles  contractor  for  the  very  purpose  of  execut- 
ing it.  The  youth  was  tormented  by  this  spirit  of 
invention,  which  took  possession  of  all  his  thoughts 
and  while  devoting  his  mind  to  study  he  had  no 
time  to  listen  to  his  feelings. 

Michael  told  me  all  this  with  a  mixed  feeling;  of 
pride  and  vexation.  I  saw  he  was  proud  of  the  son 
he  was  abusing,  and  that  his  very  pride  made  him 
more  sensible  of  that  son's  neo-lect. 

Six  O'clock  F.  M. — I  have  just  finished  a  happy 
day.  How  many  events  have  happened  within  a 
few  hours,  and  what  a  change  for  Genevieve  and 
Michael ! 

He  had  just  finished  fixing  the  shelves  and  telling 
me  of  his  son,  while  I  laid  the  cloth  for  my  break- 
fast. 

Suddenly  we  heard  hurried  steps  in  the  passage, 
the  door  opened,  and  Genevieve  entered  with 
Robert. 


122  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

The  joiner  gave  a  start  of  joyful  surprise,  but  he 
repressed  it  immediately,  as  if  he  wished  to  keep  up 
the  appearance  of  displeasure. 

The  young  man  did  not  appear  to  notice  it,  but 
threw  himself  into  his  arms  in  an  open-hearted 
manner  which  surprised  me.  Genevieve,  whose 
face  shone  with  happiness,  seemed  to  wish  to  speak, 
and  to  restrain  herself  with  difficulty. 

I  told  Robert  I  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  he  an- 
swered me  with  ease  and  civility. 

"  I  expected  you  yesterday,"  said  Michael  Arout 
rather  dryly. 

"  Forgive  me,  father,"  replied  the  young  work- 
man, "  but  I  had  business  at  St.  Germain's.  I  was 
not  able  to  come  back  till  it  was  very  late,  and  then 
the  master  kept  me." 

The  joiner  looked  at  his  son  sideways,  and  then 
took  up  his  hammer  again. 

"  All  right,"  muttered  he  in  a  grumbling  tone ; 
"  when  we  are  with  other  people  we  must  do  as 
they  wish ;  but  there  are  some  who  would  like 
better  to  eat  brown  bread  witli  their  own  knife 
than  partridges  with  the  silver  fork  of  a  master," 

"  And  I  am  one  of  those,  father,"  replied  Robert 
merrily  ;  "  but,  as  the  proverb  says,  '  3^ou  must  shell 
the  peas  before  you  can  eat  them.'  It  was  neces- 
sary that  I  should  first  work  in  a  great  work- 
shop  " 

"  To  go  on  with  your  plan  of  the  staircase,"  inter- 
rupted Michael,  ironicall}^ 

"  You  must  now  say  M.  Raymond's  plan,  father," 
replied  Robert,  smiling. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS,  123 

"  Why  ?" 

^'  Because  I  have  sold  it  to  him." 

The  joiner,  who  was  planing  a  board,  turned 
round  quickly. 

"  Sold  it !"  cried  he,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  For  the  reason  that  I  was  not  rich  enough  to 
give  it  him." 

Michael  threw  down  the  board  and  tool. 

"  There  he  is  again  !"  resumed  he  angrily  ;  "  his 
good  genius  puts  an  idea  into  his  head  which  would 
have  made  him  known,  and  he  goes  and  sells  it  to 
a  rich  man,  who  will  take  all  the  honor  of  it  him- 
self." 

"  Well,  what  harm  is  there  done  ?"  asked  Gen- 
evieve. 

"What  harm!"  cried  the  joiner  in  a  passion. 
"You  understand  nothing  about  it — you  are  a 
woman  ;  but  he — he  knows  well  that  a  true  work- 
man never  giv^es  up  his  own  inventions  for  money, 
no  more  than  a  soldier  Avould  give  up  his  cross. 
That  is  his  glory  ;  he  is  bound  to  keep  it  for  the 
honor  it  does  him !  Ah !  thunder  !  if  I  had  ever 
made  a  discovery,  rather  than  put  it  up  at  auction  I 
would  have  sold  one  of  my  eyes !  Don't  you  see 
that  a  new  invention  is  like  a  child  to  a  workman  ? 
He  takes  care  of  it,  he  brings  it  up,  he  makes  a  way 
for  it  in  the  world,  and  it  is  only  poor  creatures  who 
sell  it." 

Robert  colored  a  little. 

"  You  will  think  differently,  father,"  said  he, 
"  when  you  know  why  I  sold  my  plan." 


124  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"  Yes,  and  you  will  thank  him  for  it,"  added 
Genevieve,  who  could  no  longer  keep  silence. 

"  Never !"  replied  Michael. 

"  But,  wretched  man !"  cried  she,  "  he  only  sold 
it  for  our  sakes !" 

The  joiner  looked  at  his  wife  and  son  with  as- 
tonishment. It  was  necessary  to  come  to  an  expla- 
nation. The  latter  related  how  he  had  entered  into 
a  negotiation  with  Master  Benoit,  who  had  positive- 
ly refused  to  sell  his  business  unless  one-half  of  the 
2,000  f ranees  were  first  paid  down.  It  was  in  the 
hopes  of  obtaining  this  sum  that  he  had  gone  to 
work  with  the  contractor  at  Versailles ;  he  had  had 
an  opportunity  of  trying  his  invention  and  of  find- 
ing a  purchaser.  Thanks  to  the  money  he  received 
for  it,  he  had  just  concluded  the  bargain  with  Be- 
noit, and  had  brought  his  father  the  key  of  the  new 
work-yard. 

This  explanation  was  given  by  the  young  work- 
man with  so  much  modesty  and  simplicity  that  I 
was  quite  affected  by  it.  Genevieve  cried  ;  Michael 
pressed  his  son  to  his  heart,  and  in  a  long  embrace 
he  seemed  to  ask  his  pardon  for  having  unjustly  ac- 
cused him. 

All  was  now  explained  with  honor  to  Robert. 
The  conduct  which  his  parents  had  ascribed  to  in- 
difference really  sprang  from  affection ;  he  had 
neither  obeyed  the  voice  of  ambition  nor  of  avarice, 
nor  even  the  nobler  inspiration  of  inventive  genius; 
his  whole  motive  and  single  aim  had  been  the  hap- 
piness of   Genevieve    and  Michael.     The  day  for 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  125 

proving  his  gratitude  had  come,  and  he  had  returned 
them  sacrifice  for  sacrifice  ! 

After  the  explanations  and  exclamations  of  joy 
were  over,  all  three  were  about  to  leave  me ;  but 
the  cloth  being  laid,  I  added  three  more  places,  and 
kept  them  to  breakfast. 

The  meal  was  prolonged  :  the  fare  was  only  toler- 
able, but  the  overflowings  of  affection  made  it  de- 
licious. Never  had  I  better  understood  the  un- 
speakable charm  of  family  love.  What  calm  enjoy- 
ment in  that  happiness  which  is  always  shared  with 
others;  in  that  community  of  interests  which  unites 
such  various  feeling ;  in  that  association  of  exist- 
ences which  forms  one  single  being  of  so  many  ! 
"What  is  man  without  those  home  affections  which, 
like  so  many  roots,  fix  him  firmly  in  the  earth  and 
permit  him  to  imbibe  all  the  juices  of  life  ?  Energy, 
happiness — does  it  not  all  come  from  them  ?  With- 
out family  life  where  would  man  learn  to  love,  to 
associate,  to  deny  himself?  A  community  in  little, 
is  it  not  this  which  teaches  us  how  to  live  in  the 
great  one  ?  Such  is  the  holiness  of  home,  that  to 
express  our  relation  with  God  we  have  been  obliged 
to  borrow  the  words  invented  for  our  family  life. 
Men  have  named  themselves  the  sons  of  a  heavenly 
Father ! 

Ah !  let  us  carefully  preserve  these  chains  of 
domestic  union  ;  do  not  let  us  unbind  the  human 
sheaf  and  scatter  its  ears  to  all  the  caprices  of 
chance  and  of  the  wands  ;  but  let  us  rather  enlarge 
this  holy  law;  let  us  carry  the  principles  and  the  habits 


126  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

of  home  beyond  its  bounds  ;  and,  if  it  may  be,  let 
us  realize  the  prayer  of  the  Apostle  of  the  Gentiles 
when  he  exclaimed  to  the  new-born  children  of 
Christ : 

"  Be  ye  like-minded,  having  the  same  love,  being 
of  one  accord,  of  one  mind."  * 

*  Philippians  ii.  2. 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  127 


CHAPTER  X. 


OTIE     COUNT  K  Y  . 


October  ^th^  Seven  O'clock  A.M. — The  nights  are 
already  become  cold  and  long ;  the  sun,  shining 
through  ray  curtains,  no  more  wakens  me  long  be- 
fore the  hour  for  work ;  and  even  when  my  eyes 
are  open,  the  pleasant  warmth  of  the  bed  keeps  me 
fast  under  my  counterpane.  Every  morning  there 
begins  a  long  argument  between  my  activity  and 
my  indolence  ;  and,  snugly  wrapped  up  to  the  eyes, 
I  wait,  like  the  Gascon,  until  they  have  succeeded 
in  coming  to  an  agreement. 

This  morning,  however,  a  light  which  shone 
from  my  door  upon  my  pillow  awoke  me  earlier 
than  usual.  In  vain  I  turned  on  my  side  ;  the  per- 
severing light,  like  a  victorious  enemy,  pursued  me 
into  every  position.  At  last,  quite  out  of  patience, 
I  sat  up  and  hurled  my  nightcap  to  the  foot  of  the 
bed! 

(I  will  observe,  by  way  of  parenthesis,  that  the 
various  evolutions  of  this  pacific  head-gear  seem  to 
have  been,  from  the  remotest  time,  symbols  of  the 
vehement  emotions  of  the  mind ;  for  our  language 
has  borrowed  its  most  common  images  from  them. 
Thus  we  say  :  Mettre  son  bonnet  cle  travers  /  jeter  son 


128  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAMIS. 

bonnet  par-dessus  les  moulins  ;  avoir  la  tete  pres  du 
honnet^  etc.*) 

But  be  this  as  it  may,  I  got  up  in  a  ver}^  bad 
humor,  grumbling  at  my  new  neighbor,  who  took  it 
into  his  head  to  be  wakeful  when  I  wished  to  sleep. 
"We  are  all  made  thus;  we  do  not  understand  that 
others  may  live  on  their  own  account.  Each  one  of 
us  is  like  the  earth  according  to  the  old  system  of 
Ptolemy,  and  thinks  he  can  have  the  whole  universe 
revolve  round  himself.  On  this  point,  to  make  use 
of  the  metaphor  alluded  to  :  Tous  les  hommes  ont 
la  tete  dans  le  meme  honnet.\ 

I  had  for  the  time  being,  as  I  have  already  said, 
thrown  mine  to  the  other  end  of  my  bed ;  and  I 
slowly  disengaged  my  legs  from  the  warm  bed- 
clothes while  making  a  host  of  evil  reflections  upon 
the  inconvenience  of  having  neighbors. 

For  more  than  a  month  I  had  not  had  to  com- 
plain of  those  wiiom  chance  had  given  me  ;  most  of 
them  only  came  in  to  sleep,  and  went  away  again  on 
rising.  I  was  almost  always  alone  on  this  top  story 
— alone  with  the  clouds  and  the  sparrows ! 

But  at  Paris  nothing  lasts:  the  current  of  life 
carries  us  along,  like  the  seaweed  torn  from  the 
rock :  the  houses  are  vessels  which  take  mere  pas- 
sengers. How  many  different  faces  have  I  already 
seen  pass  along  the  landing-place  belonging  to  our 


*  To  be  in  a  bad  humor. 
To  brave  the  opinions  of  the  world. 
To  be  angry  about  a  trifle, 
t  Said  of  those  who  are  of  the  same  opinions  and  tastes. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  129 

attics  !  How  many  companions  of  a  few  days  have 
disappeared  forever !  Some  are  lost  in  that  medley 
of  the  living  which  whirls  continually  under  the 
scourge  of  necessity,  and  others  in  that  resting-place 
of  the  dead    who  sleep  under  the  hand  of  God  ! 

Peter  the  bookbinder  is  one  of  these  last.  Wrapped 
up  in  selfishness,  he  lived  alone  and  friendless,  and 
he  died  as  he  had  lived.  His  loss  was  neither 
mourned  by  an}^  one  nor  disarranged  anything  in 
the  world  ;  there  was  merely  a  ditch  filled  up  in  the 
graveyard  and  an  attic  emptied  in  our  house. 

It  is  the  same  which  my  new  neighbor  has  in- 
habited for  the  last  few  days. 

To  say  truly  (now  that  I  am  quite  awake  and  my 
ill-humor  is  gone  to  join  my  nightcap) — to  say  truly, 
this  new  neighbor,  although  rising  earlier  than  suits 
my  idleness,  is  not  the  less  a  very  good  man :  he 
carries  his  misfortunes  as  few  know  how  to  carry 
their  good  fortunes,  with  cheerfulness  and  modera- 
tion. 

But  fate  has  cruelly  tried  him.  Father  Chaufour 
is  but  the  wreck  of  a  man.  In  the  place  of  one  of 
his  arms  hangs  an  empty  sleeve  ;  his  left  leg  is 
made  by  the  turner,  and  he  drags  the  right  along 
with  difficulty ;  but  above  these  ruins  rises  a  calm 
and  happy  face.  AVhile  looking  upon  his  counte- 
nance, radiant  with  a  serene  energy,  while  listening 
to  his  voice,  the  tone  of  which  has,  so  to  speak,  the 
accent  of  goodness,  we  see  that  the  soul  has  re- 
mained entire  in  the  half-destro^^ed  covering.  The 
fortress  is  a  little  damaged,  as  Father  Chaufour 
says,  but  the  garrison  is  quite  hearty. 


130  ^^  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

Decidedly,  the  more  I  think  of  this  excellent 
man,  the  more  I  reproach  myself  for  the  sort  of 
malediction  I  bestowed  on  him  when  I  awoke. 

We  are  generally  too  indulgent  in  our  secret 
wrongs  toward  our  neighbor.  All  ill-will  which 
does  not  pass  the  region  of  thought  seems  innocent 
to  us,  and,  with  our  clumsy  justice,  we  excuse  with- 
out examination  the  sin  which  does  not  betray  itself 
by  action  ! 

But  are  we,  then,  only  bound  to  others  by  the  en- 
forcement of  laws  ?  Besides  these  external  rela- 
tions, is  there  not  a  real  relation  of  feeling  between 
men  ?  Do  we  not  owe  to  all  those  who  live  under 
the  same  heaven  as  ourselves  the  aid  not  only  of  our 
acts,  but  of  our  purposes?  Ought  not  every  human 
life  to  be  to  us  like  a  vessel  that  we  accompany  with 
our  prayers  for  a  happy  voyage  ?  It  is  not  enough 
that  men  do  not  harm  one  another;  they  must  also 
help  and  love  one  another !  The  papal  benediction, 
Urhi  et  orbi  !  should  be  the  constant  cry  from  all 
hearts.  To  condemn  him  who  does  not  deserve  it, 
even  in  the  mind,  even  by  a  passing  thought,  is  to 
break  the  great  law,  that  which  has  established  the 
union  of  souls  here  below  and  to  which  Christ  has 
given  the  sweet  name  of  charity. 

These  thoughts  came  into  my  mind  as  I  finished 
dressing,  and  I  said  to  myself  that  Father  Chaufour 
had  a  right  to  a  reparation  from  me.  To  make 
amends  for  the  feeling  of  ill-will  I  had  against  him 
just  now,  I  owed  him  some  explicit  proof  of 
sympathy.     I  heard  him  humming  a  tune  in  his 


Aisr  A TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  131 

room ;  he  was  at  work,  and  I  determined  that  I 
would  make  the  first  neighborly  call. 

Eight  O"^ dock  P.M. — I  found  Father  Chaufour  ata 
table  lighted  by  a  little  smoky  lamp,  without  a  fire, 
although  it  is  alread}^  cold,  and  making  large 
pasteboard  boxes ;  he  was  humming  a  popular  song 
in  a  low  tone.  1  had  hardly  entered  the  room 
when  he  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  and 
pleasure. 

"  Eh !  is  it  you,  neighbor  ?  Come  in,  then !  I 
did  not  think  j^ou  got  up  so  early,  so  I  put  a  dam- 
per on  my  music ;  I  was  afraid  of  waking  you." 

Excellent  man !  while  I  was  sendins:  him  to  the 
devil  he  was  putting  himself  out  of  his  way  for  me  ! 

This  thought  touched  me,  and  I  paid  my  compli- 
ments on  his  having  become  my  neighbor  with  a 
warmth  which  opened  his  heart. 

''  Faith !  you  seem  to  me  to  have  the  look  of  a 
good  Christian,"  said  he  in  a  voice  of  soldier-like 
cordiality  and  shaking  me  by  the  hand.  "  I  do  not 
like  those  people  who  look  on  a  landing-place  as  a 
frontier  line,  and  treat  their  neighbors  as  if  they 
were  Cossacks.  "When  men  snuff  the  same  air  and 
speak  the  same  lingo,  they  are  not  meant  to  turn 
their  backs  to  each  other.  Sit  down  there,  neighbor ; 
I  don't  mean  to  order  you  ;  only  take  care  of  the 
stool ;  it  has  but  three  legs,  and  we  must  put  good 
will  in  the  place  of  the  fourth." 

"  It  seems  that  that  is  a  treasure  which  there  is 
no  want  of  here,"  I  observed. 

"  Good  will !"  repeated  Chaufour ;  "  that  is  all  my 


132  ^-ZV  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

mother  left  me,  and  I  take  it  no  son  has  received  a 
better  inheritance.  Therefore  they  used  to  call  me 
Mr.  Content  in  the  batteries." 

"  You  are  a  soldier,  then  ?" 

"I  served  in  the  Third  Artiller}^  under  the  Re- 
public, and  afterward  in  the  Guard  through  all  the 
commotions.  I  was  at  Jemappes  and  at  "Waterloo  ; 
so  I  was  at  the  christening  and  at  the  burial  of  our 
glory,  as  one  may  say  !" 

I  looked  at  him  with  astonishment. 

"And  how  old  were  you,  then,  at  Jemappes?" 
asked  I. 

"  Somewhere  about  fifteen,"  said  he. 

"  How  came  you  to  think  of  being  a  soldier  so 
early  ?" 

"  I  did  not  really  think  about  it.  I  then  worked 
at  toy  making,  and  never  dreamed  that  France  could 
ask  me  for  anything  else  than  to  make  her  draught- 
boards, shuttlecocks,  and  cups  and  balls.  But  I 
had  an  old  uncle  at  Yincennes  whom  I  went  to  see 
from  time  to  time — a  Fontenoy  veteran  in  the  same 
rank  of  life  as  myself,  but  with  ability  enough  to 
have  risen  to  that  of  a  marshal.  Unluckily,  in 
those  days  there  was  no  way  for  common  people  to 
get  on.  My  uncle,  whose  services  would  have  got 
him  made  a  prince  under  the  other,  had  then  retired 
with  the  mere  rank  of  sub-lieutenant.  But  you 
should  have  seen  him  in  his  uniform,  his  Cross  of 
St.  Louis,  his  w^ooden  leg,  his  w^hite  mustaches,  and 
his  noble  countenance.  You  would  have  said  he 
was  a  portrait  of  one  of  those  old  heroes  in  pow- 
dered hair  which  are  at  Yersailles  I 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  133 

"Every  time  I  visited  him  he  said  something 
which  remained  fixed  in  my  memory.  But  one  day 
I  found  him  quite  grave. 

"  '  Jerome,'  said  he,  '  do  you  know  what  is  going 
on  on  the  frontier  V 

" '  No,  lieutenant,'  repHed  I. 

"  '  Well,'  resumed  he,  '  our  country  is  in  danger  !' 

"I  did  not  well  understand  him,  and  yet  it 
seemed  something  to  me. 

u '  Perhaps  you  have  never  thought  what  your 
country  means,'  continued  he,  placing  his  hand  on 
my  shoulder ;  '  it  is  all  that  surrounds  you,  all  that 
has  brought  you  up  and  fed  you,  all  that  you  have 
loved !  This  ground  that  you  see,  these  houses, 
these  trees,  those  girls  who  go  along  there  laughing 
— this  is  your  country !  The  laws  which  protect 
you,  the  bread  which  pays  for  your  work,  the  words 
you  interchange  with  others,  the  joy  and  grief 
which  come  to  you  from  the  men  and  things  among 
which  3^ou  live — this  is  your  country !  The  little 
room  where  you  used  to  see  your  mother,  the  re- 
membrances she  has  left  you,  the  earth  where  she 
rests — this  is  your  country !  You  see  it,  you 
breathe  it,  everywhere !  Think  to  yourself,  my 
son,  of  your  rights  and  your  duties,  your  affections 
and  your  wants,  jour  past  and  your  present  bless- 
ings ;  write  them  all  under  a  single  name — and  that 
name  \vill  be  your  country !' 

"I  was  trembling  with  emotion,  and  great  tears 
were  in  my  eyes. 

" '  Ah !  I  understand,'  cried  I ;  '  it  is  our  home  in 


134  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS, 

large ;  it  is  that  part  of  the  world  where  God  has 
placed  our  body  and  our  soul.' 

" '  You  are  right,  Jerome/  continued  the  old 
soldier;  'so  you  comprehend  also  what  we  owe  it/ 

" '  Truly,'  resumed  I,  '  we  owe  it  all  that  we  are ; 
it  is  a  question  of  love.' 

" '  And  of  honesty,  ray  son,'  concluded  he.  '  The 
member  of  a  family  who  does  not  contribute  his 
share  of  work  and  of  happiness  fails  in  his  duty 
and  is  a  bad  kinsman ;  the  member  of  a  partnership 
who  does  not  enrich  it  with  all  bis  might,  with  all 
his  courage,  and  with  all  his  heart,  defrauds  of  it 
what  belongs  to  it  and  is  a  dishonest  man.  It  is 
the  same  with  him  who  enjoys  the  advantages  of 
having  a  country  and  does  not  accept  the  burdens 
of  it ;  he  forfeits  his  honor  and  is  a  bad  citizen !' 

" '  And  what  must  one  do,  lieutenant,  to  be  a 
good  citizen  V  asked  I. 

" '  Do  for  your  country  what  you  would  do  for 
your  father  and  mother,'  said  he. 

"I  did  not  answer  at  the  moment;  my  heart 
was  swelling  and  the  blood  boiling  in  my  veins : 
but  on  returning  along  the  road,  my  uncle's  words 
were,  so  to  speak,  written  up  before  my  eyes.  I 
repeated,  '  Do  for  your  country  what  you  would  do 
for  your  father  and  mother.'  And  my  country  is 
in  danger ;  an  enemy  attacks  it,  while  I — I  turn  cups 
and  balls ! 

"  This  thought  tormented  me  so  much  all  night 
that  the  next  day  I  returned  to  Yincennes  to  an- 
nounce to  the  lieutenant  that  I   had  just  enlisted 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  135 

and  was  going  off  to  the  frontiers.  The  brave  man 
pressed  me  upon  his  Cross  of  St.  Louis,  and  I  went 
away  as  proud  as  an  ambassador. 

"That  is  how,  neighbor,  I  became  a  volunteer 
under  the  Ee public  before  I  had  cut  my  wisdom 
teeth." 

All  this  was  told  quietly,  and  in  the  cheerful 
spirit  of  him  who  looks  upon  an  accomplished  duty 
neither  as  a  merit  nor  a  grievance. 

While  he  spoke.  Father  Chautour  grew  animated, 
not  on  account  of  himself,  but  of  the  general  sub- 
ject. Evidently  that  which  occupied  him  in  the 
drama  of  life  was  not  bis  own  part,  but  the  drama 
itself. 

This  sort  of  disinterestedness  touched  me.  I 
prolonged  my  visit  and  showed  myself  as  frank  as 
possible,  in  order  to  win  his  confidence  in  return. 
In  an  hour's  time  he  knew  my  position  and  my 
habits ;  I  was  on  the  footing  of  an  old  acquaintance. 

I  even  confessed  the  ill  humor  the  light  of  his 
lamp  put  me  into  a  short  time  before.  He  took 
Avhat  I  said  with  the  touching  cheerfulness  which 
comes  from  a  heart  in  the  right  place  and  wnich 
looks  upon  everything  on  the  good  side.  He 
neither  spoke  to  me  of  the  necessity  which  obliged 
him  to  work  while  I  could  sleep,  nor  of  the  dep- 
rivations of  the  old  soldier  compared  to  the  luxury 
of  the  young  clerk;  he  only  struck  his  forehead, 
accused  himself  of  thoughtlessness,  and  promised  to 
put  list  round  his  door ! 

O  great  and  beautiful  soul !  with  whom  nothing 


136  AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPEEIi  IN  PARIS. 

turns  to  bitterness  and  who  art  peremptory  only  in 
duty  and  benevolence ! 

October  15th. — This  morning  I  was  looking  at  a 
little  engraving  I  had  framed  myself  and  hung 
over  my  writing-table ;  it  is  a  design  of  Gavarni's, 
in  which,  in  a  grave  mood,  he  has  represented  "  A 
Yeteran  and  a  Conscript.""  "^ 

By  often  contemplating  these  two  figures,  so 
different  in  expression  and  so  true  to  life,  both 
have  become  living  in  my  eyes;  I  have  seen  them 
move,  I  have  heard  them  speak ;  the  picture  has 
become  a  real  scene,  at  which  I  am  present  as 
spectator. 

The  veteran  advances  slowly,  his  hand  leaning  on 
the  shoulder  of  the  young  soldier.  His  eyes,  closed 
forever,  no  longer  perceive  the  sun  shining  through 
the  flowering  chestunt-trees.  In  the  place  of  his 
right  arm  hangs  an  empty  sleeve,  and  he  walks  with 
a  wooden  leg,  the  sound  of  which  on  the  pavement 
makes  those  who  pass  turn  to  look. 

At  the  sight  of  this  ancient  wreck  from  our 
patriotic  wars,  the  greater  number  shake  their 
heads  in  pity,  and  I  seem  to  hear  a  sigh  or  an  im- 
precation. 

"  See  the  worth  of  glor}^ !"  says  a  portly  mer- 
chant, turning  away  his  eyes  in  horror. 

"  What  a  deplorable  use  of  human  life !"  rejoins  a 
young  man  who  carries  a  volume  of  philosophy 
under  his  arm. 

*  See  this  beautiful  composition  in  the  Magasln  Pitto- 
resque  for  1847. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  137 

"The  trooper  would  better  not  have  left  his 
plow,"  adds  a  countryman  with  a  cunning  air. 

"  Poor  old  man  !"  murmurs  a  woman  almost  cry- 
ing. 

The  veteran  has  heard  and  he  knits  his  brow  ;  for 
it  seems  to  him  that  his  guide  has  grown  thoughtful. 
The  latter,  attracted  by  what  he  hears  around  him, 
hardly  answers  the  old  man's  questions,  and  his 
eyes,  vaguely  lost  in  space,  seem  to  be  seeking  there 
for  the  solution  of  some  problem. 

I  seem  to  see  a  twitching  in  the  gray  mustaches 
of  the  veteran;  he  stops  abruptly,  and  holding  back 
his  guide  with  his  remaining  arm — 

"  They  all  pity  me,"  says  he,  "  because  they  do 
not  understand  it ;  but  if  I  were  to  answer  them " 

*'  What  would  you  say  to  them,  father  ?"  asks  the 
young  man  with  curiosity. 

"  I  would  say  first  to  the  woman  who  weeps  when 
she  looks  at  me  to  keep  her  tears  for  other  misfor- 
tunes ;  for  each  of  my  wounds  calls  to  mind  some 
struggle  for  my  colors.  There  is  room  for  doubting 
how  some  men  have  done  their  duty  :  with  me  it  is 
visible.  I  carry  the  account  of  my  services,  written 
Avith  the  enemy's  steel  and  lead,  on  myself  ;  to  pity 
me  for  having  dene  my  duty  is  to  suppose  I  would 
better  have  been  false  to  it." 

"  And  what  would  you  say  to  the  countryman, 
father?" 

"  I  would  tell  him  that,  to  drive  the  plow  in  peace, 
we  must  first  secure  the  country  itself ;  and  that,  as 
long  as  there  are  foreigners  ready  to  eat  our  harvest, 
there  must  be  arms  to  defend  it." 


138         ^^  ATTIC  PEtLOSOPHEU  IN  PARIS. 

"  But  the  young  student,  too,  shook  his  head 
when  he  lamented  such  a  use  of  life." 

'■' Because  he  does  not  know  what  self-sacrifice 
and  suffering  can  teach.  The  books  which  he 
studies  we  have  put  in  practice,  though  we  never 
read  them :  the  principles  he  applauds  we  have 
defended  with  powder  and  bayonet." 

"And  at  the  price  of  your  limbs  and  your  blood. 
The  merchant  said,  when  he  saw  your  maimed 
body,  '  See  the  worth  of  glory !'  " 

"  Do  not  believe  him,  my  son  :  the  true  glorj''  is 
the  bread  of  the  soul ;  it  is  this  which  nourishes  self- 
sacrifice,  patience,  and  courage.  The  Master  of  all 
has  bestowed  it  as  a  tie  the  more  between  men. 
When  we  desire  to  be  distinguished  by  our  breth- 
ren, do  we  not  thus  prove  our  esteem  and  our 
sympathy  for  them  ?  The  longing  for  admiration 
is  but  one  side  of  love.  No,  no;  the  true  glory 
can  never  be  too  dearly  paid  for!  That  which  we 
should  deplore,  child,  is  not  the  infirmities  which 
prove  a  generous  self  sacrifice,  but  those  which  our 
vices  or  our  imprudence  have  called  forth.  Ah  !  if 
I  could  speak  aloud  to  those  who,  when  passing 
cast  looks  of  pity  upon  me,  I  should  say  to  the 
young  man  whose  excesses  have  dimmed  his  sight 
before  he  is  old,  'What  have  you  done  with  your 
eyes?'  To  the  slothful  man  who  with  difficulty 
drags  along  his  enervated  mass  of  flesh,  'What  have 
you  done  with  your  feet  V  To  the  old  man  who  is 
punished  for  his  intemperance  by  the  gout,  '  What 
have  you  done  with  your  hands  V     To  all,  '  What 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PATtlS.  139 

have  you  clone  with  the  cla3^s  God  granted  you, 
with  the  faculties  you  should  have  employed  for 
the  good  of  your  brethren  V  If  you  cannot  answer, 
bestow  no  more  of  your  pity  upon  the  old  soldier 
maimed  in  his  country's  cause  ;  for  he — he  at  least 
— can  show  his  scars  without  shame." 

October  l(!4h. — The  little  engraving  has  made  me 
comprehend  better  the  merits  of  Father  Chaufour, 
and  I  therefore  esteem  him  all  the  more. 

He  has  just  now  left  my  attic.  There  no  longer 
passes  a  single  day  \vithout  his  coming  to  work  by 
my  tire  or  my  going  to  sit  and  talk  by  his  board. 

The  old  artilleryman  has  seen  much  and  likes  to 
tell  of  it.  For  twenty  years  he  was  an  armed 
traveler  throughout  Europe,  and  he  fought  without 
hatred,  for  he  was  possessed  by  a  single  thought — 
the  honor  of  the  national  flag  !  It  might  have  been 
his  superstition,  if  you  will ;  but  it  w^as,  at  the  same 
time,  his  safeguard. 

The  word  France,  Avhich  was  then  resounding 
so  gloriously  through  the  w^orld,  served  as  a  talis- 
man to  him  against  all  sorts  of  temptation.  To 
have  to  support  a  great  name  may  seem  a  burden 
to  vulgar  minds,  but  it  is  an  encouragement  to 
vigorous  ones. 

''  I,  too,  have  had  many  moments,"  said  he  to  me 
the  other  day,  "  when  I  have  been  tempted  to 
make  friends  with  the  devil.  War  is  not  precisely 
the  school  for  rural  virtues.  By  dint  of  burning, 
destroying,  and  killing  you  grow  a  little  tough  as 
regards  your  feelings  ;  and  when  the  bayonet  has 


140  ^^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

made  you  king,  the  notions  of  an  autocrat  come 
into  your  head  a  little  strongly.  But  at  these 
moments  I  called  to  mind  that  country  which  the 
lieutenant  spoke  of  to  me,  and  I  whispered  to 
myself  the  well-known  phrase,  Toujours  Franqais  ! 
It  has  been  laughed  at  since.  People  who  would 
make  a  joke  of  the  death  of  their  mother  have 
turned  it  into  ridicule,  as  if  the  name  of  our  country 
was  not  also  a  noble  and  a  binding  thing.  For  my 
part,  I  shall  never  forget  from  how  many  follies  the 
title  of  Frenchman  has  kept  me.  When,  overcome 
with  fatigue,  I  have  found  myself  in  the  rear  of  the 
colors,  and  when  the  musketry  was  rattling  in  the 
front  ranks,  many  a  time  I  heard  a  voice,  which 
whispered  in  my  ear,  '  Leave  the  others  to  fight, 
and  for  to-day  take  care  of  your  own  hide !'  But 
then,  that  word  Fi^an^ais  I  murmured  within  me, 
and  I  pressed  forward  to  help  my  comrades.  At 
other  times,  when,  irritated  by  hunger,  cold,  and 
wounds,  I  have  arrived  at  the  hovel  of  some 
Meinherr^  I  have  been  seized  by  an  itching  to  break 
the  master's  back  and  to  burn  his  hut;  but  I 
whispered  to  myself  Fran^ais  I  and  this  name 
would  not  rhyme  either  with  incendiary  or  mur- 
derer. I  have  in  this  way  passed  through  king- 
doms from  east  to  west  and  from  north  to  south, 
always  determined  not  to  bring  disgrace  upon  my 
country's  flag.  The  lieutenant,  you  see,  had  taught 
me  a  magic  word — My  country  !  Not  only  must 
w^e  defend  it,  but  we  must  also  make  it  great  and 
loved." 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  141 

October  Vlih. — To-day  I  have  paid  my  neighbor 
a  long  visit.  A  chance  expression  led  the  way 
to  his  telling  me  more  of  himself  than  he  had  yet 
done. 

I  asked  him  whether  both  his  limbs  had  been  lost 
in  the  same  battle. 

"  No,  no !"  re])lied  he  ;  "  the  cannon  only  took  my 
leg ;  it  was  the  Clamart  quarries  that  my  arm  went 
to  feed." 

And  when  I  asked  him  for  the  particulars — 

"  That's  as  easy  as  to  say  good-morning,"  con- 
tinued he.  "After  the  great  break-up  at  Waterloo, 
I  stayed  three  months  in  the  camp  hospital  to  give 
my  wooden  leg  time  to  grow.  As  soon  as  I  was 
able  to  hobble  a  little  I  took  leave  of  headquarters 
and  took  the  road  to  Paris,  where  I  hoped  to  find 
some  relation  or  friend  ;  but  no — all  were  gone  or 
under  ground.  I  should  have  found  myself  less 
strange  at  Vienna,  Madrid,  or  Berlin,  And  al- 
though I  had  a  leg  the  less  to  provide  for,  I  was 
none  the  better  off ;  my  appetite  had  come  back 
and  my  last  sous  were  taking  flight. 

"  I  had  indeed  met  my  old  colonel,  who  recollect- 
ed that  I  had  helped  him  out  of  the  skirmish  at 
Montereau  by  giving  him  my  horse,  and  he  had 
offered  me  bed  and  board  at  his  house.  I  knew  that 
the  year  before  he  had  married  a  castle  and  no  few 
farms,  so  that  I  might  become  permanent  coat- 
brusher  to  a  millionaire,  which  w^as  not  without  its 
temptations.  It  remained  to  see  if  I  had  not  any- 
thing better  to  do.  One  evening  I  set  myself  to 
reflect  upon  it. 


142  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"  '  Let  us  see,  Chaufour,'  said  I  to  myself ;  '  the 
question  is  to  act  like  a  man.  The  colonel's  place 
suits  3^ou,  but  cannot  you  do  an^^thing  better  ? 
Your  body  is  still  in  good  condition  and  your  arms 
strong;  do  you  not  owe  all  your  strength  to  your 
country,  as  your  Yincennes  uncle  said  ?  Why  not 
leave  some  old  soldier,  more  cut  up  than  you  are, 
to  get  his  hospital  at  the  colonel's  ?  Come,  trooper, 
you  are  still  fit  for  another  stout  charge  or  two  I 
You  must  not  lay  up  before  your  time.' 

"  Whereupon  I  went  to  thank  the  colonel,  and  to 
offer  my  services  to  an  old  artilleryman  who  had 
gone  back  to  his  home  at  Clamart  and  who  had 
taken  up  the  quarrvman's  pick  again. 

"  For  the  first  few  months  I  played  the  con- 
script's part — that  is  to  say,  there  was  more  stir 
than  work  ;  but  with  a  good  will  one  gets  the  better 
of  stones,  as  of  everything  else.  I  did  not  become, 
so  to  speak,  the  leader  of  a  column,  but  I  brought 
up  the  rank  among  the  good  workmen,  and  I  ate 
my  bread  w^ith  a  good  appetite,  seeing  I  had  earned 
it  with  a  good  will.  For  even  under  ground,  you 
see,  I  still  kept  m}^  pride.  The  thought  that  I  was 
working  to  do  my  part  in  changing  rocks  into 
houses  pleased  my  heart.  I  said  to  myself, 
'  Courage,  Chaufour,  m}^  old  boy  ;  3"ou  are  helping 
to  beautify  your  country.'  And  that  kept  up  my 
spirit. 

"  Unfortunately,  some  of  my  companions  \vere 
rather  too  sensible  to  the  charms  of  the  brandy 
bottle;  so  much  so  that  one  day  one  of  them,  who 


AN'  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  143 

could  hardly  distinguish  his  right  hand  from  his 
left,  thought  proper  to  strike  a  light  close  to  a 
charged  mine.  The  mine  exploded  suddenly  and 
sent  a  shower  of  stone  grape  among  us,  which 
killed  three  men  and  carried  away  the  arm  of 
which  I  have  now  only  the  sleeve." 

"  So  you  were  again  without  means  of  living?" 
said  I  to  the  old  soldier. 

"That  is  to  sa}^  I  had  to  change  them,"  replied 
he  quietly.  "  The  difficulty  was  to  find  one  which 
would  do  with  five  fingers  instead  of  ten  ;  I  found 
it,  however." 

"  How  was  that  ?" 

"  Among  the  Paris  street-sweepers." 

"  What !  you  have  been  one " 

"  Of  the  pioneers  of  the  health  force  for  awhile, 
neighbor,  and  that  was  not  my  worst  time  either. 
The  corps  of  sweepers  is  not  so  low  as  it  is  dirty,  I 
can  tell  you  !  Tbere  are  old  actresses  in  it  who 
could  never  learn  to  save  their  mone}'^,  and  ruined 
merchants  from  the  exchange ;  we  even  had  a  pro- 
fessor of  classics,  who  for  a  little  drink  would  recite 
Latin  to  you,  or  Greek  tragedies,  as3"ou  chose.  They 
could  not  have  competed  for  the  Monthyon  prize ; 
but  we  excused  faults  on  account  of  poverty,  and 
cheered  our  poverty  by  our  good  humor  and  jokes. 
I  was  as  ragged  and  as  cheerful  as  the  rest,  while  try- 
ing to  be  something  better.  Even  in  the  mire  of 
the  gutter  I  preserved  my  faith  that  nothing  is  dis- 
honorable which  is  useful  to  our  country. 

"  '  Chaufour,'  said  I  to  myself  with  a  smile, '  after 


144  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

the  sword,  the  hammer ;  after  the  hammer,  the 
broom  ;  you  are  going  downstairs,  my  old  boy,  but 
you  are  still  serving  your  country.' " 

"  However,  you  ended  by  leaving  your  new  pro- 
fession f  said  I. 

"  A  reform  was  required,  neighbor.  The  street- 
sweepers  seldom  have  their  feet  dry,  and  the  damp 
at  last  made  the  wounds  in  my  good  leg  open  again. 
I  could  no  longer  follow  the  regiment,  and  it  was 
necessary  to  lay  down  my  arms.  It  is  now  two 
months  since  I  left  off  working  in  the  sanitary 
department  of  Paris. 

"  At  the  first  moment  I  was  daunted.  Of  my 
four  limbs,  I  had  now  only  my  right  hand,  and  even 
that  had  lost  its  strength ;  so  it  was  necessary  to 
find  some  gentlemanly  occupation  for  it.  After  try- 
ing a  little  of  everything,  I  fell  upon  cardbox 
making,  and  here  I  am  at  cases  for  the  lace  and 
buttons  of  the  national  guard ;  it  is  work  of  little 
profit,  but  it  is  within  the  capacity  of  all.  By  get- 
ting up  at  four  and  working  till  eight  I  earn  65 
centimes ;  my  lodging  and  bowl  of  soup  take 
50  of  them,  and  there  are  3  sous  over  for 
luxuries.  So  I  am  richer  than  France  herself,  for  I 
have  no  deficit  in  my  budget ;  and  I  continue  to 
serve  her,  as  I  save  her  lace  and  buttons." 

At  these  words  Father  Chaufour  looked  at  me 
with  a  smile,  and  with  his  great  scissors  began  cut- 
ting the  green  paper  again  for  his  cardboard  cases. 
My  heart  was  touched  and  I  remained  lost  in 
thought. 


AN  ATI  10  PniLOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  I45 

Here  is  still  another  member  of  that  sacred 
phalanx  who,  in  the  battle  of  life,  always  march  in 
front  for  the  example  and  the  salvation  of  the  world ! 
Each  of  these  brave  soldiers  has  his  war-cry  ;  for  this 
one  it  is  "  Country,"  for  that  "  Home,"  for  a  third 
*'  Mankind  :"  but  thev  all  follow  the  same  standard 

'  ml 

— that  of  duty  ;  for  all  the  same  divine  law"  reigns 
— that  of  self-sacrifice.  To  love  something  more 
than  one's  self — that  is  the  secret  of  all  that  is 
great ;  to  know  how  to  live  for  others — that  is  the 
aim  of  all  noble  souls. 


146  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


CHAPTEK  XI. 

MORAL    USE    OF    INVENTORIES. 

November  l^th,  Nine  O'clock  P.M. — I  had  well 
stopped  up  the  chinks  of  my  window ;  my  little 
carpet  was  nailed  down  in  its  place ;  my  lamp,  pro- 
vided with  its  shade,  cast  a  subdued  light  around  ; 
and  my  stove  made  a  low  murmuring  sound,  as  if 
some  live  creature  was  sharing  my  hearth  with  me. 

All  was  silent  around  me.  But  out  of  doors  the 
snow  and  rain  swept  the  roofs  and  with  a  low  rush- 
ing sound  ran  along  the  gurgUng  gutters  ;  some- 
times a  gust  of  wind  forced  itself  beneath  the  tiles, 
which  rattled  together  like  castanets,  and  afterward 
it  was  lost  in  the  empty  corridor.  Then  a  slight 
and  pleasurable  shiver  thrilled  through  my  veins  :  I 
drew  the  flaps  of  my  old  wadded  dressing-gown 
round  me,  I  pulled  my  threadbare  velvet  cap  over 
my  eyes,  and,  letting  myself  sink  deeper  into  my 
easy-chair,  while  my  feet  basked  in  the  heat  and 
light  which  shone  through  the  door  of  the  stove,  I 
gave  myself  up  to  a  sensation  of  enjoyment,  made 
more  lively  b}^  the  consciousness  of  the  storm  which 
raged  without.  My  eyes,  swimming  in  a  sort  of 
mist,  wandered  over  all  the  details  of  my  peaceful 
abode ;  they  passed  from  my  prints  to  my  bookcase, 


AK  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  147 

resting  upon  the  little  chintz  sofa,  the  white  curtains 
of  the  iron  bedstead,  and  the  portfolio  of  loose 
papers — those  archives  of  the  attics ;  and  then,  re- 
turning to  the  book  I  held  in  my  hand,  they  at- 
tempted to  seize  once  more  the  thread  of  the  reading 
which  had  been  thus  interrupted. 

In  fact  this  book,  the  subject  of  which  had  at  first 
interested  me,  had  become  painful  to  me.  I  had 
come  to  the  conclusion  that  the  pictures  of  the 
writer  were  too  somber.  His  descriptior  of  the 
miseries  of  the  world  appeared  exaggerated  to  me  ; 
I  could  not  believe  in  such  excess  of  poverty  and  of 
suffering ;  neither  God  nor  man  could  show  them- 
selves so  harsh  toward  the  sons  of  Adam.  The 
author  had  yielded  to  an  artistic  temptation ;  he 
was  making  a  show  of  the  sufferings  of  humanity, 
as  Nero  burned  Rome  for  the  sake  of  the  pic- 
turesque. 

Taken  altogether,  this  poor  human  house,  so  often 
repaired,  so  much  criticised,  is  still  a  pretty  good 
abode  ;  we  may  find  enough  in  it  to  satisf}^  our 
wants  if  we  know  how  to  set  bounds  to  them  ;  the 
happiness  of  the  wise  man  costs  but  little  and  asks 
but  little  space. 

These  consoling  reflections  became  more  and 
more  confused.  At  last  my  book  fell  on  the  ground 
without  my  having  the  resolution  to  stoop  and  take 
it  up  again  ;  and  insensibly  overcome  by  the  luxury 
of  the  silence,  the  subdued  light,  and  the  warmth,  I 
fell  asleep. 

I  remained  for  some  time  lost  in  the  sort  of  in- 


148  ^^  A TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARTS. 

sensibility  belonging  to  a  first  sleep ;  at  last  some 
vague  and  broken  sensations  came  over  me.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  the  da}^  grew  darker,  that  the  air 
became  colder.  I  half-perceived  bushes  covered 
with  the  scarlet  berries  which  foretell  the  coming 
of  winter.  I  walked  on  a  dreary  road,  bordered 
here  and  there  with  juniper-trees  white  with  frost. 
Then  the  scene  suddenly  changed.  I  was  in  the 
dilio:ence  :  the  cold  wind  shook  the  doors  and  win- 
dows ;  the  trees,  loaded  with  snow,  passed  by  like 
ghosts  ;  in  vain  I  thrust  my  benumbed  feet  into  the 
crushed  straw.  At  last  the  carriage  stopped,  and, 
by  one  of  those  stage  effects  so  common  in  sleep,  I 
found  myself  alone  in  a  barn,  without  a  fireplace, 
and  open  to  the  winds  on  all  sides.  I  saw  again  my 
mother's  gentle  face,  known  only  to  me  in  my  early 
childhood,  the  noble  and  stern  countenance  of  my 
father,  the  little  fair  head  of  my  sister,  who  was 
taken  from  us  at  ten  years  old :  all  my  dead  family 
lived  again  around  me ;  they  were  there,  exposed  to 
the  bitings  of  the  cold  and  to  the  pangs  of  hunger. 
My  mother  prayed  by  the  resigned  old  man,  and  my 
sister,  rolled  up  on  some  rags  of  which  they  had 
made  her  a  bed,  cried  in  silence  and  held  her  naked 
feet  in  her  little  blue  hands. 

It  was  a  page  from  the  book  I  had  just  read 
transferred  into  my  own  existence. 

My  heart  was  oppressed  with  inexpressible  an- 
guish. Crouched  in  a  corner,  with  my  e3^es  fixed 
upon  this  dismal  picture,  I  felt  the  cold  slowly 
creeping  upon  me,  and  I  said  to  myself  with  bit- 
terness : 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  W  PARIS.  149 

"  Let  us  die,  since  poverty  is  a  dungeon  guarded 
by  suspicion,  apathy,  and  contempt,  and  from  which 
it  is  vain  to  try  to  escape  ;  let  us  die,  since  there  is 
no  place  for  us  at  the  banquet  of  the  living !" 

And  I  tried  to  rise  to  join  ray  mother  again  and 
to  wait  at  her  feet  for  the  hour  of  release. 

This  effort  dispelled  ray  dreara,  and  I  awoke  with 
a  start. 

I  looked  around  nie ;  ray  lamp  was  expiring,  the 
fire  in  ray  stove  extinguished,  and  ray  half-opened 
door  was  letting  in  an  icy  wind.  I  got  up,  with  a 
shiver,  to  shut  and  double-lock  it;  then  I  made  for 
the  alcove  and  w^ent  to  bed  in  haste. 

But  the  cold  kept  rae  aw^ake  a  long  time,  and  my 
thoughts  continued  the  interrupted  dream. 

The  pictures  I  had  lately  accused  of  exaggeration 
now  seemed  but  a  too  faithful  representation  of 
reality ;  and  I  went  to  sleep  without  being  able  to 
recover  my  optimism — or  ray  warrath. 

Thus  did  a  cold  stove  and  a  badly  closed  door 
alter  ray  point  of  view.  All  went  well  when  my 
blood  circulated  properly  ;  all  looked  gloomy  when 
the  cold  laid  hokl  on  rae. 

This  reminds  me  of  the  story  of  the  duchess  who 
was  obliged  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  neighboring  con- 
vent on  a  winter's  day.  The  convent  was  poor, 
there  was  no  wood,  and  the  monks  had  nothing  but 
their  discipline  and  the  ardor  of  their  prayers  to 
keep  out  the  cold.  The  duchess,  who  was  shivering 
with  cold,  returned  home  greatly  pitying  the  poor 
monks.     While  the  servants  w^ere  taking  off  her 


150  ^N  ATTIC  PHtLOSOPBER  IN  PAHIS. 

cloak  and  adding  two  more  logs  to  her  fire,  she 
called  for  her  steward,  whom  she  ordered  to  send 
some  wood  to  the  convent  immediately.  She  then 
had  her  couch  moved  close  to  the  fireside,  the 
warmth  of  which  soon  revived  her.  The  recollec- 
tion of  what  she  had  just  suffered  was  speedily  lost 
in  her  present  comfort,  when  the  steward  came  in 
again  to  ask  how  many  loads  of  wood  he  was  to 
send. 

"  Oh !  you  may  wait,"  said  the  great  lady  care- 
lessly ;  "  the  weather  is  very  much  milder.". 

Thus  man's  judgments  are  formed  Jess  from  rea- 
son than  from  sensation ;  and  as  sensation  comes  to 
him  from  the  outward  world,  so  he  finds  himself 
more  or  loss  under  its  influence ;  by  little  and  little 
he  imbibes  a  portion  of  his  habits  and  feelings  from 
it. 

It  is  not,  then,  without  cause  that  when  we  w^ish 
to  judge  of  a  stranger  beforehand  we  look  for  indi- 
cations of  his  character  in  the  circumstances  which 
surround  him.  The  things  among  wdiich  we  live 
are  necessarily  made  to  take  our  image,  and  we  un- 
consciously leave  in  them  a  thousand  impressions  of 
our  minds.  As  we  can  judge  by  an  empty  bed  of 
the  height  and  attitude  of  him  w^ho  has  slept  in  it, 
so  the  abode  of  every  man  discovers  to  a  close  ob- 
server the  extent  of  his  intelligence  and  the  feelings 
of  his  heart.  Bernardin  de  St.  Pierre  has  related 
the  story  of  a  young  girl  who  refused  a  suitor  be- 
cause he  would  never  have  flow^ers  or  domestic  ani- 
mals in  his  house.    Perhaps  the  sentence  was  severe, 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  151 

but  not  without  reason.  We  ma}'  presume  that  a 
man  insensible  to  beauty  and  to  humble  affection 
must  be  ill  prepared  to  I'eel  the  enjoyments  of  a 
happy  marriage. 

14:th,  Seven  O^clock  P.M. — This  morning  as  I  was 
opening  my  journal  to  write  I  had  a  visit  from  our 
old  cashier. 

His  sight  is  not  so  good  as  it  was,  his  hand  be- 
gins to  shake,  and  the  work  he  was  able  to  do 
formerl}'  is  now  becoming  somewhat  laborious  to 
him.  I  had  undertaken  to  write  out  some  of  his 
papers,  and  he  came  for  those  I  had  finished. 

We  conversed  a  long  time  by  the  stove,  while  he 
was  drinking  a  cup  of  coffee  which  I  made  him 
take. 

M.  Rateau  is  a  sensible  man,  who  has  observed 
much  and  speaks  little  ;  so  that  he  has  always  some- 
thing to  say. 

While  looking  over  the  accounts  I  had  prepared 
for  him  his  looks  fell  upon  my  journal,  and 
I  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  in  this  way  I 
wrote  a  diary  of  my  actions  and  thoughts  every 
evening  for  private  use.  From  one  thing  to  another, 
I  began  speaking  to  him  of  my  dream  the  day  be- 
fore, and  my  reflections  about  the  influence  of  out- 
ward objects  upon  our  ordinary  sentiments.  He 
smiled. 

''  Ah !  you  too  have  my  superstitions,"  he  said 
quietly.  "I  have  always  believed,  like  you,  that 
*  3'ou  may  know  the  game  by  the  lair :'  it  is  only 
necessary  to  have  tact  and  experience ;  but  without 


152  AN  ATTIC  PEtLOSOPHEB  IN  PARIS. 

them  we  commit  ourselves  to  many  rash  judgments. 
For  my  part,  I  have  been  guilty  of  this  more  than 
once,  but  sometimes  I  have  also  drawn  a  right  con- 
clusion. I  recollect  especially  an  adventure  which 
goes  as  far  back  as  the  first  years  of  my  youth " 

He  stopped.  I  looked  at  him  as  if  I  waited  for 
his  story,  and  he  told  it  me  at  once. 

At  this  time  he  was  still  but  third  clerk  to  an  at- 
torney at  Orleans.  His  master  had  sent  him  to 
Montargis  on  different  affairs,  and  he  intended  to 
return  in  the  diligence  the  same  evening,  after 
having  received  the  amount  of  a  bill  at  a  neighbor- 
ing town  ;  but  they  kept  him  at  the  debtor's  house, 
and  when  he  was  able  to  set  out  the  day  had  already 
closed. 

Fearing  not  to  be  able  to  reach  Montargis  in 
good  time,  he  took  a  cross-road  they  pointed  out  to 
him.  Unfortunately  the  fog  increased,  no  star  was 
visible  in  the  heavens,  and  the  darkness  became  so 
great  that  he  lost  his  road.  He  tried  to  retrace  his 
steps,  passed  twenty  foot-paths,  and  at  last  found 
himself  completely  astray. 

After  the  vexation  of  losing  his  place  in  the  dili- 
gence, came  the  feeling  of  uneasiness  as  to  his 
situation.  He  was  alone,  on  foot,  lost  in  a  forest, 
without  any  means  of  finding  his  right  road  again, 
and  with  a  considerable  sum  of  money  about  him, 
for  which  he  was  responsible.  His  anxiety  was  in 
creased  by  his  inexperience.  The  idea  of  a  forest 
was  connected  in  his  mind  with  so  man}?^  adventures 
of  robbery  and  murder  that  he  expected  some  fatal 
encounter  every  instant. 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  153 

To  say  the  truth,  his  situation  was  not  encour- 
aging. The  place  was  not  considered  safe,  and  for 
some  time  past  there  had  been  rumors  of  the  sud- 
den disappearance  of  several  horse-dealers,  though 
there  was  no  trace  of  any  crime  having  been 
committed. 

Our  young  traveler,  with  his  eyes  staring  forward 
and  his  ears  listening,  followed  a  footpath  which  he 
supposed  might  take  him  to  some  house  or  road  ; 
but  woods  always  succeeded  to  woods.  At  last  he 
perceived  a  light  at  a  distance,  and  in  a  quarter  of 
an  hour  he  reached  the  high-road. 

A  single  house,  the  light  from  which  had  at- 
tracted him,  appeared  at  a  little  distance.  He  was 
going  toward  the  entrace  gate  of  the  court-yard, 
when  the  trot  of  a  horse  made  him  turn  his  head. 
A  man  on  horseback  had  just  appeared  at  the  turn- 
ing of  the  road,  and  in  an  instant  was  close  to  him. 

The  first  words  he  addressed  to  the  young  man 
showed  him  to  be  the  farmer  himself.  He  related 
how  he  had  lost  himself,  and  learned  from  the 
countryman  that  he  was  on  the  road  to  Pithiviers. 
Montargis  was  three  leagues  behind  him. 

The  fog  had  insensibly  changed  into  a  drizzling 
rain,  which  was  beginning  to  wet  the  young  clerk 
through  ;  he  seemed  afraid  of  the  distance  he  had 
still  to  go,  and  the  horseman,  who  saw  his  hesita- 
tion, invited  him  to  come  into  the  farm-house. 

It  had  something  of  the  look  of  a  fortress.  Sur- 
rounded by  a  pretty  high  wall,  it  could  not  be  seen 
except  through  the  bars  of  the  great  gate,  which 


154  A^  ATTIC  PHIL080PHER  IN  PARIS. 

was  carefully  closed.  The  farmer,  who  had  got  off 
his  horse,  did  not  go  near  it,  but,  turning  to  the 
right,  reached  another  entrance  closed  in  the  same 
way,  but  of  which  he  had  the  key. 

Hardly  had  he  passed  the  threshold  when  a 
terrible  barking  resounded  from  each  end  of  the 
yard.  The  farmer  told  his  guest  to  fear  nothing, 
and  sliowed  him  the  dogs  chained  up  to  their  ken- 
nels ;  both  were  of  an  extraordinary  size,  and  so 
savao-e  that  the  si^^ht  of  their  master  himself  could 
not  quiet  them. 

A  boy,  attracted  by  their  barking,  came  out  of 
the  house  and  took  the  farmer's  horse.  The  latter 
began  questioning  him  about  some  orders  he  had 
given  before  he  left  the  house,  and  went  toward 
the  stable  to  see  that  they  had  been  executed. 

Thus  left  alone,  our  clerk  looked  about  him. 

A  lantern  which  the  boy  had  placed  on  the  ground 
cast  a  dim  light  over  the  court-yard.  All  around 
seemed  empty  and  deserted.  Not  a  trace  was 
visible  of  the  disorder  often  seen  in  a  country  farm- 
yard, and  which  shows  a  temporary  cessation  of  the 
work  which  is  soon  to  be  resumed  again.  Neither 
a  cart  forgotten  where  the  horses  had  been  unhar- 
nessed, nor  sheaves  of  corn  heaped  up  ready  for 
threshing,  nor  a  plow  overturned  in  a  corner  and 
half-hidden  under  the  freshly  cut  clover.  The  yard 
was  swept,  the  barns  shut  up  and  padlocked.  Not 
a  single  vine  creeping  up  the  walls ;  ever3Mvhere 
stone,  wood,  and  iron ! 

He  took  up  the  lantern  and  went  up  to  the  corner 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHEH  IN  PARIS.  155 

of  the  house.  Behind  was  a  second  yard,  where  he 
heard  the  barking  of  a  third  dog,  and  a  covered  well 
was  built  in  the  middle  of  it. 

Our  traveler  looked  in  vain  for  the  little  farm 
garden,  where  pumpkins  of  different  sorts  creep 
along  the  ground,  or  where  the  bees  from  the  hives 
hum  under  the  hedges  of  honeysuckle  and  elder. 
Verdure  and  flowers  were  nowhere  to  be  seen.  He 
did  not  even  perceive  the  sight  of  a  poultry -yard 
or  pigeon-house.  The  habitation  of  his  host  was 
everywhere  wanting  in  that  which  makes  the  grace, 
the  life,  and  the  charm  of  the  country. 

The  young  man  thought  that  his  host  must  be  of 
a  very  careless  or  a  very  calculating  disposition  to 
concede  so  little  to  domestic  enjoyments  and  the 
pleasures  of  the  eye;  and  judging,  in  spite  of  him- 
self, by  what  he  saw,  he  could  not  help  feeling  a 
distrust  of  his  character. 

In  the  mean  time  the  farmer  returned  from  the 
stables  and  made  him  enter  the  house. 

The  inside  of  the  farm-house  corresponded  to  its 
outside.  The  whitewashed  walls  had  no  other 
ornament  than  a  row  of  guns  of  all  sizes ;  the  mass- 
ive furniture  scarcely  redeemed  its  clumsy  appear- 
ance by  its  great  solidity.  The  cleanliness  was 
doubtful,  and  the  absence  of  all  minor  conveniences 
proved  that  a  woman's  care  was  wanting  in  the 
household  concerns.  The  young  clerk  learned  that 
the  farmer,  in  fact,  lived  here  with  no  one  but  his 
two  sons. 

Of  this,  indeed,  the  signs  were  plain  enough.     A 


156  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

table  with  a  cloth  laid,  that  no  one  had  taken  the 
trouble  to  clear  away,  was  left  near  the  window. 
The  plates  and  dishes  were  scattered  upon  it  with- 
out any  order  and  loaded  with  potato-parings  and 
half-picked  bones.  Several  empty  bottles  emitted 
an  odor  of  brandy,  mixed  with  the  pungent  smell 
of  tobacco-smoke. 

After  having  seated  his  guest  the  farmer  lit  his 
pipe,  and  his  two  sons  resumed  their  work  by  the 
fireside,  l^ow  and  then  the  silence  was  just  broken 
by  a  short  remark,  answered  by  a  word  or  an  ex- 
clamation ;  and  then  all  became  as  m^ute  as  before. 

'•From  my  childhood,"  said  the  old  cashier,"! 
had  been  very  sensible  to  the  impression  of  outward 
objects ;  later  in  life,  reflection  had  taught  me  to 
study  the  causes  of  these  impressions  rather  than  to 
drive  them  away.  I  set  myself,  then,  to  examine 
everything  around  me  with  great  attention. 

"  Below  the  guns,  I  had  remarked  on  entering, 
some  wolf-traps  were  suspended,  and  to  one  of  them 
still  hung  the  mangled  remains  of  a  wolf's  paw, 
which  they  had  not  yet  taken  off  from  the  iron 
teeth.  The  blackened  chimney-piece  was  ornament- 
ed by  an  owl  and  a  raven  nailed  on  the  wall,  their 
wings  extended,  and  their  throats  with  a  huge  nail 
through  each ;  a  fox's  skin,  freshly  flayed,  was 
spread  before  the  window  ;  and  a  larder  hook,  fixed 
into  the  principal  beam,  held  a  headless  goose,  whose 
body  swayed  about  over  our  heads. 

"My  eyes  w^ere  offended  by  all  these  details,  and 
I  turned  them  again  upon  my  hosts.    The  father, 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  157 

who  sat  opposite  to  me,  only  interrupted  his  smok- 
ing to  pour  out  his  drink  or  address  some  repri- 
mand to  his  sons.  The  eldest  of  these  was  scraping 
a  deep  bucket,  and  the  bloody  scrapings,  which  he 
threw  into  the  fire  ever}^  instant,  tilled  the  room 
with  a  disagreeable  fetid  smell ;  the  second  son  was 
sharpening  some  butcher's  knives.  I  learned  from 
a  word  dropped  from  the  father  that  they  were  pre- 
paring to  kill  a  pig  the  next  day. 

"These  occupations  and  the  whole  aspect  of 
things  inside  the  house  told  of  such  habitual  coarse- 
ness in  their  way  of  living  as  seemed  to  explain, 
while  it  formed  the  fitting  counterpart  of,  the  forbid- 
ding gloominess  of  the  outside.  My  astonishment 
by  degrees  changed  into  disgust,  and  my  disgust 
into  uneasiness.  I  cannot  detail  the  whole  chain  of 
ideas  which  succeeded  one  another  in  my  imagina- 
tion ;  but,  yielding  to  an  impulse  I  could  not  over- 
come, I  got  up,  declaring  I  would  go  on  my  road 
again. 

"  The  farmer  made  some  effort  to  keep  me  ;  he 
spoke  of  the  rain,  of  the  darkness,  and  of  the  length 
of  the  way.  I  replied  to  all  by  the  absolute  neces- 
sity there  was  for  my  being  at  Montargis  that  very 
night ;  and  thanking  him  for  his  brief  hospitality,  I 
set  off  again  in  a  haste  which  might  well  have  con- 
firmed the  truth  of  my  words  to  him. 

"  However,  the  freshness  of  the  night  and  the  ex- 
ercise of  walking  did  not  fail  to  change  the  direc- 
tions of  my  thoughts.  When  away  from  the  objects 
which   had  awakened  such  lively  disgust  in  me,  I 


158  AN  ATTtG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

felt  it  gradually  diminishing.  I  began  to  smile  at 
the  susceptibility  of  my  feelings,  and  then,  in  pro- 
portio?!  as  the  rain  became  heavier  and  colder,  these 
strictures  on  myself  assumed  a  tone  of  ill  temper. 
I  silently  accused  myself  of  the  absurdity  of  mistak- 
ing sensation  for  admonitions  of  my  reason.  After 
all,  were  not  the  farmer  and  his  sons  free  to  live 
alone,  to  hunt,  to  keep  dogs,  and  to  kill  a  pig  ? 
Where  was  the  crime  of  it '^  With  less  nervous 
susceptibility,  I  should  have  accepted  the  shelter 
they  offered  me,  and  I  should  now  be  sleeping  snug- 
ly on  a  truss  of  straw,  instead  of  w^alking  with 
difficulty  through  the  cold  and  drizzling  rain.  I 
thus  continued  to  reproach  myself,  until  toward 
morning  I  arrived  at  Montargis,  jaded  and  be- 
numbed with  cold. 

"When,  however,  I  got  up  refreshed,  toward  the 
middle  of  the  next  day,  I  instinctively  returned  to 
my  first  opinion.  The  appearance  of  the  farm-house 
presented  itself  to  me  under  the  same  repulsive 
colors  which  the  evening  before  had  determined  me 
to  make  my  escape  from  it.  Reason  itself  remained 
silent  when  reviewing  all  those  coarse  details,  and 
I  was  forced  to  recognize  in  them  the  indications  of  a 
low  nature,  or,  else  the  presence  of  some  baleful  in- 
fluence. 

"  I  went  away  the  next  day  without  being  able 
to  learn  anything  concerning  the  farmer  or  his  sons, 
but  the  recollection  of  my  adventure  remained  deep- 
ly fixed  in  my  memory. 

"  Ten  years  afterward  I  was    traveling  in  the 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAUIS.  159 

diligence  through  the  department  of  the  Loiret ;  I 
was  leaning  from  the  window  and  looking  at  some 
coppice  ground  now  for  the  first  time  brought  under 
cultivation,  and  the  mode  of  clearing  which  one  of 
my  traveling  companions  was  explaining  to  me, 
when  my  eyes  fell  upon  a  walled  inclosure,  with  an 
iron-barred  gate.  Inside  it  I  perceived  a  house 
with  all  the  blinds  closed,  and  which  I  immediately 
recollected ;  it  was  the  farm-house  where  I  had 
been  sheltered.  I  eagerly  pointed  it  out  to  my 
companion  and  asked  who  lived  in  it. 

'' '  Nobody  just  now,'  replied  he. 

'"But  was  it  not  kept,  some  years  ago,  by  a 
farmer  and  his  two  sons  V 

'''The  Turreaus,' said  m}^  traveling  companion, 
looking  at  me ;  '  did  you  know  them  V 

" '  I  saw  them  once.' 

"  He  shook  his  head. 

" '  Yes,  yes !'  resumed  he ;  '  for  many  years  they 
lived  there  like  wolves  in  their  den  ;  they  merely 
knew  how  to  till  land,  kill  game,  and  drink.  The 
father  managed  the  house,  but  men  living  alone, 
without  women  to  love  them,  without  children  to 
soften  them,  and  without  God  to  make  them  think 
of  heaven,  always  turn  into  wild  beasts,  you  see ;  so 
one  morning  the  eldest  son,  who  had  been  drinking 
too  much  brandy,  would  not  harness  the  plow- 
horses  ;  his  father  struck  him  with  his  whip,  and  the 
son,  who  was  mad  drunk,  shot  him  dead  with  his 
gun.' " 

16^A,  P,M. — I  have  been  thinking  of  the  story  of 


160        ^^  ATTIC  PmLOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

the  old  cashier  these  two  days;  it  came  so  op- 
portunely upon  the  reflections  my  dream  had  sug- 
gested to  me. 

Have  I  not  an  important  lesson  to  learn  from 
all  this  'i 

If  our  sensations  have  an  incontestable  influence 
upon  our  judgments,  how  comes  it  that  we  are  so 
little  careful  of  those  things  which  awaken  or 
modify  these  sensations '  The  external  world  is 
always  reflected  in  us  as  in  a  mirror,  and  fills  our 
minds  with  pictures  which,  unconsciously  to  our- 
selves, become  the  germs  of  our  opinions  and  of 
our  rules  of  conduct.  All  the  objects  which  sur- 
round us  are  then,  in  realit}^,  so  many  talismans 
from  whence  good  and  bad  influences  are  emitted. 
It  is  for  us  to  choose  them  wisely,  so  as  to  create  a 
healthy  atmosphere  for  our  minds. 

Feeling  convinced  of  this  truth,  I  set  about  mak- 
ing a  surve}"  of  my  attic. 

The  first  object  on  which  my  eyes  rest  is  an  old 
map  of  the  history  of  the  principal  monastery  in  my 
native  province.  I  had  unrolled  it  with  much 
satisfaction  and  placed  it  on  the  most  conspicuous 
part  of  the  wall.  Why  had  I  given  it  this  place? 
Ought  this  sheet  of  old  worm-eaten  parchment  to 
be  of  so  much  value  to  me,  who  am  neither  an  an- 
tiquary nor  a  scholar?  Is  not  its  real  importance 
in  my  sight  that  one  of  the  abbots  who  founded  it 
bore  my  name,  and  that  I  shall,  perchance,  be  able 
to  make  myself  a  genealogical  tree  of  it  for  the 
edification  of  my  visitors?     While  writing  this  I 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPREH  IN  PARIS.  161 

feel  my  own  blushes.  Come,  clown  with  the  map ! 
let  us  banish  it  into  my  deepest  drawer 

As  I  passed  my  glass,  I  perceiv^ed  several  visiting 
cards  complacently  displayed  in  the  frame.  By 
what  chance  is  it  that  there  are  only  names  that 
make  a  show  among  them  ?  Here  is  a  Polish 
count — a  retired  colonel — the  deput}^  of  my  depart- 
ment. Quick,  quick,  into  the  fire  with  these  proofs 
of  vanity !  and  let  us  put  this  card  in  the  handwrit- 
ing of  our  office-boy,  this  direction  for  cheap  din- 
ners, and  the  receipt  of  the  broker  where  I  bought 
my  last  arm-chair  in  their  place.  These  indica- 
tions of  my  poverty  will  serve,  as  Montaigne  says, 
mater  7na  siijperle,  and  will  always  make  me  recol- 
lect the  modesty  in  which  the  dignity  of  the  lowly 
consists. 

I  have  stopped  before  the  prints  hanging  upon 
the  wall.  This  large  and  smiling  Pomona,  seated 
on  sheaves  of  corn,  and  whose  basket  is  overflowing 
with  fruit,  only  produces  thoughts  of  joy  and  plen- 
ty ;  I  was  looking  at  her  the  other  day,  when  I  fell 
asleep  denying  such  a  thing  as  misery.  Let  us  give 
her  as  companion  this  picture  of  Winter,  in  which 
everything  tells  of  sorrow  and  suffering:  one 
picture  will  modify  the  other. 

And  this  Happy  Family  of  Greuze's  !  What  joy 
in  the  children's  eyes!  what  sweet  repose  in  the 
young  woman's  face !  what  religious  feeling  in  the 
grandfather's  countenance !  Ma\^  God  preserve 
their  happiness  to  them  !  but  let  us  hang  by  its  side 
the   picture   of  this   mother,  who  weeps  over  an 


162         AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

empty  cradle.  Human  life  has  two  faces,  both  of 
which  we  must  dare  to  contemplate  in  their  turns. 

Let  me  hide,  too,  these  ridiculous  monsters  which 
ornament  my  chimney-piece.  Plato  has  said  that 
"  the  beautiful  is  nothing  else  than  the  visible  form 
of  the  good."  If  it  is  so,  the  ugly  should  be  the 
visible  form  of  the  evil,  and  by  constantly  behold- 
ing it  the  mind  insensibly  deteriorates. 

But  above  all,  in  order  to  cherish  the  feelings  of 
kindness  and  pity,  let  me  hang  at  the  foot  of  my 
bed  this  affecting  picture  of  the  Last  Sleep !  Never 
have  I  been  able  to  look  at  it  without  feeling  my 
heart  touched. 

An  old  woman,  clothed  in  rags,  is  lying  by  a 
roadside ;  her  stick  is  at  her  feet,  and  her  head 
rests  upon  a  stone  ;  she  has  fallen  asleep ;  her  hands 
are  clasped  ;  murmuring  a  prayer  of  her  childhood, 
she  sleeps  her  last  sleep,  she  dreams  her  last 
dream ! 

She  sees  herself,  again  a  strong  and  happy  child, 
keeping  the  sheep  on  the  common,  gathering  the 
berries  from  the  hedges,  singing,  courtesyiug  to 
passers-by,  and  making  the  sign  of  the  cross  when 
the  first  star  appears  in  the  heavens !  Happy  time, 
filled  with  fragrance  and  sunshine !  She  wants 
nothing  yet,  for  she  is  ignorant  of  what  there  is  to 
wish  for. 

But  see  her  grown  up ;  the  time  is  come  for 
working  bravely  :  she  must  cut  the  corn,  thresh  the 
wheat,  carry  the  bundles  of  flowering  clover  or 
branches  of  withered  leaves  to  the  farm.     If  her  toil 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  1G3 

is  hard,  hope  shines  like  a  sun  over  eveiything  and 
it  wipes  the  drops  of  sweat  away.  The  growing 
girl  already  sees  that  life  is  a  task ;  but  she  still 
sings  as  she  fulfills  it. 

By  and  by  the  burden  becomes  heavier ;  she  is  a 
wife,  she  is  a  mother !  She  must  economize  the 
bread  of  to-day,  have  her  eye  upon  the  morrow, 
take  care  of  the  sick,  and  sustain  the  feeble  ;  she 
must  act,  in  short,  that  part  of  an  earthly  provi- 
dence, so  easy  when  God  gives  us  his  aid,  so  hard 
when  he  forsakes  us.  The  woman  is  still  strong, 
but  she  is  anxious ;  she  sings  no  longer  ! 

Yet  a  few  years,  and  all  is  overcast.  The  hus- 
band's health  is  broken ;  his  wife  sees  him  pine 
away  by  the  now  fireless  hearth;  cold  and  hunger 
finish  what  sickness  had  begun  ;  he  dies,  and  his 
widow  sits  on  the  ground  by  the  coffin  provided 
by  the  charity  of  others,  pressing  her  two  half- 
naked  little  ones  in  her  arms.  She  dreads  the 
future,  she  weeps,  and  she  droops  her  head. 

At  last  the  future  has  come ;  the  children  are 
grown  up,  but  they  are  no  longer  with  her.  Her 
son  is  fighting  under  his  country's  flag  and  his 
sister  is  gone.  Both  have  been  lost  to  her  for  a 
long  time — perhaps  forever ;  and  the  strong  girl, 
the  brave  wife,  the  courageous  mother  is  from 
henceforth  but  an  aged  beggar-woman,  without  a 
family  and  without  a  home !  She  weeps  no  more  ; 
sorrow  has  subdued  her ;  she  surrenders  and  waits 
for  death. 

Death,  that  faithful   friend  of   the    wretched,  is 


164  ^^  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

come :  not  hideous  and  with  mockery,  as  supersti- 
tion represents,  but  beautiful,  smiling,  and  crowned 
with  stars !  The  gentle  phantom  stoops  to  the 
beggar ;  its  pale  lips  murmur  a  few  airy  words, 
which  announce  to  her  the  end  of  her  labors;  a 
peaceful  joy  comes  over  the  aged  beggar-woman, 
and  leaning  on  the  shoulder  of  the  great  Deliverer, 
she  has  passed  unconsciously  from  her  last  earthly 
sleep  to  her  eternal  rest. 

Lie  there,  thou  poor  way-wearied  woman !  The 
leaves  will  serve  thee  for  a  winding-sheet,  ISTight 
w^ill  shed  her  tears  of  dew  over  thee,  and  the  birds 
will  sing  sweetly  by  thy  remains.  Thy  visit  here 
below  will  not  have  left  more  trace  than  their  flio-ht 
through  the  air  ;  thy  name  is  already  forgotten,  and 
the  only  legacy  thou  hast  to  leave  is  the  hawthorn 
stick  lying  forgotten  at  thy  feet ! 

Well !  some  one  will  take  it  up — some  soldier  of 
that  great  human  host  which  is  scattered  abroad 
by  misery  or  by  vice  ;  for  thou  art  not  an  exception, 
thou  art  an  instance ;  and  under  the  same  sun  which 
shines  so  pleasantly  upon  all,  in  the  midst  of  these 
flowering  vineyards,  this  ripe  corn,  and  these 
wealthy  cities,  entire  generations  suffer,  succeed 
each  other,  and  still  bequeath  to  each  the  beggar's 
stick ! 

The  sight  of  this  sad  picture  shall  make  me  more 
grateful  for  what  God  has  given  me,  and  more  com- 
passionate for  those  whom  he  has  treated  with  less 
indulgence ;  it  shall  be  a  lesson  and  a  subject  for 
reflection  for  me. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPnER  IN  PA  HIS.  1 65 

Ah !  if  we  would  watch  for  everything  that 
might  improve  and  instruct  us ;  if  the  arrangements 
of  our  daily  life  were  so  disposed  as  to  be  a  constant 
school  for  our  minds !  but  oftenest  we  take  no  heed 
of  them.  Man  is  an  eternal  mystery  to  himself ;  his 
own  person  is  a  house  into  which  he  never  enters 
and  of  which  he  studies  the  outside  alone.  Each 
of  us  need  have  continually  before  him  the  famous 
inscription  which  once  instructed  Socrates,  and 
which  was  engraved  on  the  walls  of  Delphi  by  an 
unknown  hand: 

"know  thyself." 


166  ^^  ^  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  BIS. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    END    OF   THE    YEAR. 

Deceinber  ZOth,  F.M.—l  was  in  bed,  and  hardly 
recovered  from  the  delirious  fever  which  had  kept 
me  for  so  long  between  life  and  death.  My  weak- 
ened brain  was  making  efforts  to  recover  its 
activity ;  my  thoughts,  like  rays  of  light  struggling 
through  the  clouds,  were  still  confused  and  imper- 
fect ;  at  times  I  felt  a  return  of  the  dizziness  which 
made  a  chaos  of  all  my  ideas,  and  I  floated,  so  to 
speak,  between  alternate  fits  of  mental  wandering 
and  consciousness. 

Sometimes  everything  seemed  plain  to  me,  like 
the  prospect  which,  from  the  top  of  some  high 
mountain,  opens  before  us  in  clear  weather.  We 
distinguish  water,  woods,  villages,  cattle,  even  the 
cottage  perched  on  the  edge  of  the  ravine ;  then 
suddenly  there  comes  a  gust  of  wind  laden  with 
mist,  and  all  is  confused  and  indistinct. 

Thus,  yielding  to  the  oscillations  of  a  half-recov- 
ered reason,  I  allowed  my  mind  to  follow  its 
various  impulses  without  troubling  myself  to 
separate  the  real  from  the  imaginary ;  I  glided 
softly  from  one  to  the   other,  and   my  dreams  and 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAMIS,  167 

waking  thoughts  succeeded  closely  upon  one  an- 
other. 

Now,  while  my  mind  is  wandering  in  this  unset- 
tled state,  see,  underneath  the  clock  which  measures 
the  hours  with  its  loud  ticking,  a  female  figure  ap- 
pears before  me ! 

At  first  sight  I  saw  enough  to  satisfy  me  that  she 
was  not  a  daughter  of  Eve.  In  her  eye  was  the  last 
flash  of  an  expiring  star,  and  her  face  had  the  pallor 
of  an  heroic  death-struggle.  She  was  dressed  in  a 
drapery  of  a  thousand  changing  colors  of  the  bright- 
est and  the  most  somber  hues,  and  she  held  a  with- 
ered garland  in  her  hand. 

After  having  contemplated  her  for  some  mo- 
ments, I  asked  ber  name  and  what  brought  her 
into  my  attic.  Her  eyes,  which  were  following  the 
movements  of  the  clock,  turned  toward  me,  and  she 
replied : 

"  You  see  in  me  the  year  which  is  just  drawing  to 
its  end ;  I  come  to  receive  your  thanks  and  your 
farewell." 

I  raised  myself  on  my  elbow  in  surprise,  which 
soon  gave  place  to  bitter  resentment. 

"  Ah !  you  want  thanks,"  cried  I ;  ^'  but  first  let 
me  know  what  for. 

"  When  I  welcomed  3'our  coming  I  was  still 
young  and  vigorous  :  you  have  taken  from  me  each 
day  some  little  of  my  strength,  and  you  have  ended 
by  inflicting  an  illness  upon  me  ;  already,  thanks  to 
you,  my  blood  is  less  warm,  my  muscless  less  firm, 
and   my  feet    less  agile    than  before !     You   have 


168  ^-ZV  -4 TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

planted  the  germs  of  infirmity  in  my  bosom  ;  there, 
where  the  summer  flowers  of  life  were  growing,  you 
have  wickedly  sown  the  nettles  of  old  age ! 

"  And,  as  if  it  was  not  enough  to  weaken  my 
body,  you  have  also  diminished  the  powers  of  my 
soul:  you  have  extinguished  her  enthusiasm;  she 
is  become  more  sluggish  and  more  timid.  Formerly 
her  eyes  took  in  the  whole  of  mankind  in  their 
generous  survey  ;  but  you  have  made  her  near- 
sighted, and  now  she  scarcely  sees  beyond  herself ! 

"  That  is  what  you  have  done  for  my  spiritual 
being :  then  as  to  my  outward  existence,  see  to 
what  grief,  neglect,  and  misery  you  have  reduced 
it! 

"  For  the  many  days  that  the  fever  has  kept  me 
chained  to  this  bed,  who  has  taken  care  of  this 
home,  in  which  I  placed  all  my  joy  ?  Shall  I  not 
find  my  closets  empty,  my  bookcase  stripped,  all 
my  poor  treasures  lost  through  negligence  or  dis- 
honesty ?  Where  are  the  plants  I  cultivated,  the 
birds  I  fed  ?  All  are  gone !  my  attic  is  despoiled, 
silent,  and  solitary ! 

"  As  it  is  only  for  the  last  few  moment^  that  I 
have  returned  to  a  consciousness  of  what  surrounds 
me,  I  am  even  ignorant  who  has  nursed  me  during 
my  long  illness !  Doubtless  some  hireling,  who  will 
leave  when  all  my  means  of  recompense  are  ex- 
hausted ! 

"  And  what  will  my  masters,  for  whom  I  am 
bound  to  work,  have  said  to  my  absence  ?  At  this 
time  of  the  year,  when  business  is  most  pressing, 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  169 

can  they  have  done  without  me,  will  they  even  have 
tried  to  do  so  ?  Perhaps  I  am  already  superseded 
in  the  humble  situation  by  which  I  earned  my  daily 
bread !  And  it  is  thou — thou  alone,  wicked 
daughter  of  Time — who  has  brought  all  these  mis- 
fortunes upon  me  :  strength,  health,  comfort,  work 
— thou  hast  taken  all  from  me.  I  have  only  re- 
ceived outrage  and  loss  from  thee,  and  yet  thou 
darest  to  claim  my  gratitude ! 

"  Ah  !  die  then,  since  thy  day  is  come ;  but  die 
despised  and  cursed  ;  and  may  I  write  on  thy  tomb 
the  epitaph  the  Arabian  poet  inscribed  upon  that  of 
a  king : 

"  '  Kejoice,  thou  passer  by  :  he  Avhom  we  have 
buried  here  cannot  live  again.'  " 

•  •••••• 

I  was  awakened  by  a  hand  taking  mine;  and 
opening  my  eyes,  I  recognized  the  doctor. 

After  having  felt  my  pulse,  he  nodded  his  head, 
sat  down  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  and  looked  at  me, 
rubbing  his  nose  with  his  snuff-box.  I  have  since 
learned  that  this  was  a  sign  of  satisfaction  with  the 
doctor.  ^ 

"  AVell !  so  we  wanted  old  snub-nose  to  carr}^  us 
off  ?"  said  M.  Lambert,  in  his  half-joking,  half-scold- 
ing way.  "  What  the  deuce  of  a  hurry  we  were  in  ! 
It  was  necessary  to  hold  you  back  with  both  arms 
at  least  1" 

"  Then  you  had  given  me  up,  doctor  ?"  asked  I, 
rather  alarmed. 

'^Not  at  all,"  replied  the  old  physician.     "We 


170  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAItlS. 

can't  give  up  what  we  have  not  got ;  and  I  make  it 
a  rule  never  to  have  any  hope.  We  are  but  instru- 
ments in  the  hands  of  Providence,  and  each  of  us 
should  say  with  Ambroise  Pare :  *  I  tend  him,  God 
cures  him !' " 

"  Ma}^  he  be  blessed  then,  as  well  as  you,"  cried 
I ;  "  and  may  my  health  come  back  with  the  new 
year !" 

M.  Lambert  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Begin  by  asking  yourself  for  it,"  resumed  he 
bluntly.  "  God  has  given  it  you,  and  it  is  your 
own  sense,  and  not  chance,  that  must  keep  it  for 
you.  One  would  think,  to  hear  people  talk,  that 
sickness  comes  upon  us  like  the  rain  or  the  sunshine, 
without  one  having  a  word  to  say  in  the  matter. 
Before  we  complain  of  being  ill  we  should  prove 
that  we  deserve  to  be  well." 

I  was  about  to  smile,  but  the  doctor  looked 
angry. 

"  Ah  !  you  think  that  I  am  joking,"  resumed  he, 
raising  his  voice  ;  "  but  tell  me,  then,  which  of  us 
gives  his  health  the  same  attention  that  he  gives  to 
his  business?  Do  you  economize  your  strength  as 
you  economize  your  money  ?  Do  you  avoid  excess 
and  imprudence  in  the  one  case  with  the  same  care 
as  extravagance  or  foolish  speculations  in  the  other? 
Do  you  keep  as  regular  accounts  of  your  mode  of 
living  as  you  do  of  your  income?  Do  you  consider 
every  evening  what  has  been  wholesome  or  unwhole- 
some for  you,  with  the  same  care  as  you  bring  to 
the  examination  of  your  expenditure  ?    You  may 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  171 

smile ;  but  have  you  not  brought  this  illness  on 
yourself  by  a  thousand  indiscretions  ?" 

I  began  to  protest  against  this,  and  asked  him  to 
point  out  these  indiscretions.  The  old  doctor  spread 
out  his  fingers  and  began  to  reckon  upon  them  one 
by  one. 

"  Prirao^''  cried  he,  "  want  of  exercise.  You  live 
here  like  a  mouse  in  a  cheese,  without  air,  motion, 
or  change.  Consequently,  the  blood  circulates 
badly,  the  fluids  thicken,  the  muscles,  being  inac- 
tive, do  not  claim  their  share  of  nutrition,  the 
stomach  flags,  and  the  brain  growls  weary. 

^'  Secundo.  Irregular  food.  Caprice  is  your  cook  ; 
your  stomach  a  slave  who  must  accept  what  you 
give  it,  but  who  presently  takes  a  sullen  revenge, 
like  all  slaves. 

"  Tertio.  Sitting  up  late.  Instead  of  using  the 
night  for  sleep,  you  spend  it  in  reading  ;  your  bed- 
stead is  a  bookcase,  your  pillow  a  desk !  At  the 
time  when  the  wearied  brain  asks  for  rest,  you 
lead  it  through  these  nocturnal  orgies,  and  you  are 
surprised  to  find  it  the  worse  for  them  the  next 
day. 

"  Quarto.  Luxurious  habits.  Shut  up  in  your 
attic,  you  insensibly  surround  yourself  with  a 
thousand  effeminate  indulgences.  You  must  have 
list  for  your  door,  a  blind  for  your  window,  a  car- 
pet for  your  feet,  an  easy-chair  stuffed  with  wool  for 
your  back,  your  fire  lit  at  the  first  sign  of  cold,  and 
a  shade  to  your  lamp ;  and,  thanks  to  all  these  pre- 
cautions, the  least  draught  makes  you  catch  cold, 


172  AN  ^  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARI8. 

common  chairs  give  you  no  rest,  and  you  must  wear 
spectacles  to  support  the  light  of  day.  You  have 
thought  you  were  acquiring  comforts,  and  you  have 
only  contracted  infirmities. 

"  Quinto " 

"  Ah  !  enough,  enough,  doctor!"  cried  I.  "  Pray 
do  not  carry  your  examination  further ;  do  not 
attach  a  sense  of  remorse  to  each  of  my  pleasures." 

The  old  doctor  rubbed  his  nose  with  his  snuff- 
box. 

"  You  see,"  said  he  more  gently,  and  rising  at  the 
same  time,  "  you  would  escape  from  the  truth.  You 
shrink  from  inquiry — a  proof  that  j'^ou  are  guilty. 
Habemus  conjitentem  reurn !  But  at  least,  my 
friend,  do  not  go  on  laying  the  blame  on  Time,  like 
an  old  woman." 

Thereupon  he  again  felt  my  pulse  and  took  his 
leave,  declaring  that  his  function  was  at  an  end  and 
that  the  rest  depended  upon  myself. 

When  the  doctor  was  gone  I  set  about  reflecting 
upon  what  he  had  said. 

Although  his  words  were  too  sweeping,  they 
were  not  the  less  true  in  the  main.  How  often  we 
accuse  chance  of  an  illness,  the  origin  of  which  we 
should  seek  in  ourselves  !  Perhaps  it  would  have 
been  wiser  to  let  him  finish  the  examination  he  had 
begun. 

But  is  there  not  another  of  more  importance — 
that  which  concerns  the  health  of  the  soul  ?  Am  I 
so  sure  of  having  neglected  no  means  of  preserving 
that  during  the  year  which  is  now  ending  ?    Have 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  173 

I,  as  one  of  God's  soldiers  upon  earth,  kept  my 
courage  and  my  arms  efficient  ?  Shall  I  be  ready 
for  the  great  review  of  souls  which  must  pass  before 
Him  who  is  in  the  dark  valley  of  Jehoshaphat  ? 

Barest  thou  examine  thyself,  O  my  soul !  and 
see  how  often  thou  hast  erred  ? 

First,  thou  hast  erred  through  pride !  for  I  have 
not  duly  valued  the  lowly.  I  have  drunk  too  deeply 
of  the  intoxicating  wines  of  genius,  and  have  found 
no  relish  in  pure  water.  I  have  disdained  those 
words  which  had  no  other  beauty  than  their 
sincerity  ;  I  have  ceased  to  love  men  solely  because 
they  are  men — I  have  loved  them  for  their  endow- 
ments ;  I  have  contracted  the  world  within  the 
narrow  compass  of  a  pantheon,  and  my  sympathy 
has  been  awakened  by  admiration  only.  The 
vulgar  crowd,  which  I  ought  to  have  followed  with 
a  friendly  eye  because  it  is  composed  of  my 
brothers  in  hope  or  grief,  I  have  let  pass  by  me 
with  as  much  indifference  as  if  it  were  a  flock  of 
sheep.  I  am  indignant  with  him  who  rolls  in  riches 
and  despises  the  man  poor  in  worldly  wealth  ;  and 
yet,  vain  of  my  trifling  knowledge,  I  despise  him 
who  is  poor  in  mind — I  scorn  the  poverty  of  in- 
tellect as  others  do  that  of  dress  ;  I  take  credit  for 
a  gift  which  I  did  not  bestow  on  my  myself,  and 
turn  the  favor  of  fortune  into  a  weapon  with  which 
to  attack  others. 

Ah  !  if,  in  the  worst  days  of  revolutions,  igno- 
rance has  revolted  and  raised  a  cry  of  hatred  against 
genius,  the  fault  is  not  alone  in  the  envious  malice 


174  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

of  ignorance,  but  comes  in  part,  too,  from  the  con- 
temptuous pride  of  knowledge. 

Alas!  I  have  too  completely  forgotten  the  fable 
of  the  two  sons  of  the  magician  of  Bagdad. 

One  of  them,  struck  by  an  irrevocable  decree  of 
destiny,  was  born  blind,  while  the  other  enjoyed  all 
the  delights  of  sight.  The  latter,  proud  of  his  own 
advantages,  laughed  at  his  brother's  blindness  and 
disdained  him  as  a  companion.  One  morning  the 
blind  boy  wished  to  go  out  with  him. 

"  To  what  purpose,"  said  he,  "  since  the  gods  have 
put  nothing  in  common  between  us?  For  me 
creation  is  a  stage,  where  a  thousand  charming 
scenes  and  wonderful  actors  appear  in  succession  ; 
for  you  it  is  only  an  obscure  abyss,  at  the  bottom  of 
which  you  hear  the  confused  murmur  of  an  invisible 
world.  Continue  then  alone  in  your  darkness,  and 
leave  the  pleasures  of  light  to  those  upon  whom  the 
day-star  shines." 

With  these  words  he  went  away,  and  his  brother, 
left  alone,  began  to  cry  bitterly.  His  father,  who 
heard  him,  immediately  ran  to  him,  and  tried  to 
console  him  by  promising  to  give  him  whatever  he 
desired. 

"  Can  you  give  me  sight  ?"  asked  the  child. 

'•  Fate  does  not  permit  it,"  said  the  magician. 

"  Then,"  cried  the  blind  boy  eagerly,  "  I  ask  you 
to  put  out  the  sun  !" 

Who  knows  whether  my  pride  has  not  provoked 
the  same  wish  on  the  part  of  some  one  of  my 
brothers  who  does  not  see  ? 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  175 

But  how  much  oftener  have  I  erred  through 
levity  and  want  of  thought !  IIow  many  resolutions 
have  I  taken  at  random  !  how  many  judgments 
have  I  pronounced  for  the  sake  of  a  witticism !  how 
many  mischiefs  have  I  not  done  without  any  sense 
of  my  responsibility !  The  greater  part  of  men 
harm  one  another  for  the  sake  of  doing  something. 
We  laugh  at  the  honor  of  one  and  compromise  the 
reputation  of  another,  like  an  idle  man  who  saun- 
ters along  a  hedgerow,  breaking  the  young  branches 
and  destroying  the  most  beautiful  flowers. 

And  nevertheless  it  is  by  this  very  thoughtless- 
ness that  the  fame  of  some  men  is  created.  It  rises 
gradually,  like  one  of  those  mysterious  mounds  in 
barbarous  countries  to  which  a  stone  is  added  by 
every  passer-by  :  each  one  brings  something  at 
random  and  adds  it  as  he  passes,  without  being  able 
himself  to  see  whether  he  is  raising  a  pedestal  or  a 
gibbet.  Who  will  dare  look  behind  him,  to  see  his 
rash  judgments  held  up  there  to  view  ? 

Some  time  ao^o  I  was  walkino^  alon^:  the  edo^e  of 
the  green  mound  on  which  the  Montmartre  tele- 
graph stands.  Below  me,  along  one  of  the  zigzag 
paths  which  wind  up  the  hill,  a  man  and  a  girl  were 
coming  up,  and  arrested  my  attention.  The  man 
wore  a  shaggy  coat,  which  gave  him  some  resem- 
blance to  a  wild  beast;  and  he  held  a  thick  stick  in 
his  hand,  with  which  he  described  various  strange 
figures  in  the  air.  He  spoke  very  loud,  and  in  a 
voice  which  seemed  to  me  convulsed  with  passion. 
He  raised  his  eyes  every  now  and  then  with  an  ex- 


176  Air  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

pression  of  savage  harshness,  and  it  appeared  to  me 
that  he  was  reproaching  and  threatening  the  girl, 
and  that  she  was  listening  to  him  with  a  submissive- 
ness  which  touched  my  heart.  Two  or  three  times 
she  ventured  a  few  words,  doubtless  in  the  attempt 
to  justify  herself ;  but  the  man  in  the  great-coat  be- 
gan again  immediately  with  his  loud  and  angry 
voice,  his  savage  looks,  and  his  threatening  evolu- 
tions in  the  air.  I  followed  him  with  my  eyes, 
vainly  endeavoring  to  catch  a  word  as  he  passed, 
until  he  disppeared  behind  the  hill. 

I  had  evidently  just  seen  one  of  those  domestic 
tyrants  whose  sullen  tempers  are  excited  b}^  the 
patience  of  their  victims,  and  who,  though  they 
have  the  power  to  become  the  beneficent  gods  of  a 
family,  choose  rather  to  be  their  tormentors. 

I  cursed  the  unknown  savage  in  my  heart,  and  I 
felt  indignant  that  these  crimes  against  the  sacred 
peace  of  home  could  not  be  punished  as  they  deserve, 
when  I  heard  his  voice  approaching  nearer.  He 
had  turned  the  path,  and  soon  appeared  before  me 
at  the  top  of  the  slope. 

The  first  glance  and  his  first  words  explained 
everything  to  me :  in  place  of  what  I  had  taken  for 
the  furious  tones  and  terrible  looks  of  an  angry 
man  and  the  attitude  of  a  frightened  victim,  I  had 
before  me  only  an  honest  citizen,  who  squinted  and 
stuttered,  but  who  was  explaining  the  management 
of  silk-worms  to  his  attentive  daughter. 

I  turned  homeward,  smiling  at  my  mistake ;  but 
before  I  reached  my  faubourg  I  saw  a  crowd  run- 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  177 

ning,  I  heard  calls  for  help,  and  every  finger  pointed 
in  the  same  direction  to  a  distant  column  of  flame. 
A  manufactory  had  taken  fire,  and  everybody  was 
rushino^  forward  to  assist  in  extino:uishino:  it. 

I  hesitated.  Night  was  coming  on  ;  I  felt  tired  ; 
a  favorite  book  was  awaiting  me:  I  thought  there 
would  be  no  want  of  help,  and  I  went  on  my  way. 

Just  before  I  had  erred  from  want  of  consider- 
ation ;  now  it  was  from  selfishness  and  cowardice. 

But  what !  have  I  not  on  a  thousand  other  oc- 
casions forgotten  the  duties  Avhich  bind  us  to  our 
fellow-men  ?  Is  this  the  first  time  I  have  avoided 
paying  society  what  I  owe  it  ?  Have  I  not  always 
behaved  to  my  companions  with  injustice,  and  like 
the  lion  ?  Have  I  not  claimed  successively  every 
share  ?  If  any  one  is  so  ill  advised  as  to  ask  me  to 
return  some  little  portion,  I  get  provoked,  I  am 
angr}^,  I  try  to  escape  from  it  by  every  means. 
How  many  times,  when  I  have  perceived  a  beggar 
sitling  huddled  up  at  the  end  of  the  street,  have  I 
not  gone  out  of  my  way,  for  fear  that  compassion 
would  impoverish  me  by  forcing  me  to  be  charita- 
ble !  How  often  have  I  doubted  the  misfortunes  of 
others,  that  I  might  with  justice  harden  my  heart 
against  them !  With  what  satisfaction  have  I 
sometimes  verified  the  vices  of  the  poor  man,  in  or- 
der to  show  that  his  misery  is  the  punishment  he 
deserves ! 

Oh  !  let  us  not  go  further — let  us  not  go  further  ! 
I  interrupted  the  doctor's  examination,  but  how 
much  sadder  is  this  one !  We  pity  the  diseases  of 
the  body  ;  we  shudder  at  those  of  the  soul. 


178  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

I  was  happily  disturbed  in  my  reverie  by  my 
neighbor,  the  old  soldier. 

IS'ow  I  think  of  it,  I  seem  always  to  have  seen, 
during  my  fever,  the  figure  of  this  good  old  man, 
sometimes  leaning  against  my  bed  and  sometimes 
sitting  at  his  table  surrounded  by  his  sheets  of 
pasteboard. 

He  has  just  come  in  with  his  glue-pot,  his  quire 
of  green  paper,  and  his  great  scissors.  I  called  him 
by  his  name ;  he  uttered  a  joyful  exclamation  and 
came  near  me. 

"  Well !  so  the  bullet  is  found  again  !"  cried  he, 
taking  my  two  hands  into  the  maimed  one  which 
was  left  him ;  '^  it  has  not  been  without  trouble,  I 
can  tell  you  :  the  campaign  has  been  long  enough 
to  win  two  clasps  in.  I  have  seen  no  few  fellows 
with  the  fever  batter  windmills  during  my  hospital 
days :  at  Leipsic,  I  had  a  neighbor  who  fancied  a 
chimney  was  on  fire  in  his  stomach,  and  who  was 
always  calling  for  the  fire-engines  ;  but  the  third 
day  it  all  went  out  of  itself.  But  with  you  it  has 
lasted  twenty -eight  days — as  long  as  one  of  the  Lit- 
tle Corporal's  campaigns." 

"  I  an  not  mistaken,  then ;  you  were  near  me  V 

"  Well !  I  had  only  to  cross  the  passage.  This 
left  hand  has  not  made  you  a  bad  nurse  for  want  of 
the  right ;  but,  bah  !  you  did  not  know  what  hand 
gave  you  drink,  and  it  did  not  prevent  that  beggar 
of  a  fever  from  being  drowned — for  all  the  world 
like  Poniatowski  in  the  Elster." 

The  old  soldier  began  to  laugh,  and  I,  feeling  too 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  179 

much  affected  to  speak,  pressed  his  hand  against 
my  breast.  He  saw  my  emotion  and  hastened  to 
put  an  end  to  it. 

"  By  the  bye,  you  know  that  from  to-day  you  have 
a  right  to  draw  3^our  rations  again,"  resumed  he 
gayly  ;  "  four  meals,  like  the  German  meinherrs — 
nothing  more  !     The  doctor  is  3^our  house  steward." 

"  We  must  find  the  cook,  too,"  replied  I,  with  a 
smile. 

"  She  is  found,"  said  the  veteran. 

"Who  IS  she?" 

"  Genevieve." 

"  The  fruit-woman  ?" 

"While  I  am  talking  she  is  cooking  for  you, 
neighbor ;  and  do  not  fear  her  sparing  either  butter 
or  trouble.  As  long  as  life  and  death  were  fight- 
ing for  you,  the  honest  woman  passed  her  time  in 
going  up  and  down  stairs  to  learn  which  way  the 
battle  went.     And,  stay,  I  am  sure  this  is  she." 

In  fact,  we  heard  steps  in  the  passage,  and  he 
went  to  open  the  door. 

"Oh,  well!"  continued  he,  "it  is  Mother  Millot, 
our  portress,  another  of  j^our  good  friends,  neighbor, 
and  whose  poultices  I  recommend  to  you.  Come 
in,  Mother  Millot — come  in  ;  we  are  quite  bonny 
boys  this  morning,  and  ready  to  step  a  minuet  if  we 
had  our  dancing-shoes." 

The  portress  came  in,  quite  delighted.  She 
brought  my  linen,  washed  and  mended  by  herself, 
with  a  little  bottle  of  Spanish  wine,  the  gift  of  her 
sailor  son,  and  kept  for  great  occasions.     I  would 


180  ^^'  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

have  thanked  her,  but  the  good  woman  imposed 
silence  upon  me,  under  the  pretext  that  the  doctor 
had  forbidden  me  to  speak.  I  saw  her  arrange 
everything  in  my  drawers,  the  neat  appearance  of 
which  struck  me  ;  an  attentive  hand  had  evidently 
been  there,  and  day  by  day  put  straight  the  un- 
avoidable disorder  consequent  on  sickness. 

As  she  finished,  Genevieve  arrived  with  my  din- 
ner ;  she  was  followed  by  Mother  Denis,  the  milk- 
woman  over  the  way,  who  had  learned,  at  the  same 
time,  the  danger  I  had  been  in,  and  that  I  was  now 
beginning  to  be  convalescent.  The  good  Savoyard 
brought  me  a  new-laid  egg,  which  she  herself  wished 
to  see  me  eat. 

It  was  necessary  to  relate  minutely  all  my  illness 
to  her.  At  every  detail  she  uttered  loud  exclama- 
tions ;  then,  when  the  portress  warned  her  to  be 
less  noisy,  she  excused  herself  in  a  whisper.  They 
made  a  circle  around  me  to  see  me  eat  my  dinner; 
each  mouthful  I  took  was  accompanied  by  their  ex- 
pressions of  satisfaction  and  thankfulness.  Never 
had  the  King  of  France,  when  he  dined  in  public, 
excited  such  admiration  among  the  spectators. 

As  they  were  taking  the  dinner  away,  my  col- 
league, the  old  cashier,  entered  in  his  turn. 

I  could  not  prevent  my  heart  beating  as  I  recog- 
nized him.  How  would  the  heads  of  the  firm  look 
upon  my  absence  and  what  did  he  come  to  tell  me  ? 

I  waited  with  inexpressible  anxiety  for  him  to 
speak  ;  but  he  sat  down  by  me,  took  my  hand,  and 
began  rejoicing  over  my  recovery,  without  saying  a 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  llIS.  181 

word  about  our  masters.    I  could  not  endure  this 
uncertainty  any  longer. 

"And  the  Messieurs  Durmer,"  asked  I  hesitat- 
ingly, "  how  have  they  taken — the  interruption  to 
my  work?" 

"  There  has  been  no  interruption,"  replied  the  old 
clerk  quietly. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  Each  one  in  the  oflBce  took  a  share  of  your  duty  ; 
all  has  gone  on  as  usual,  and  the  Messieurs  Durmer 
have  perceived  no  difference." 

This  was  too  much.  After  so  many  instances  of 
affection,  this  filled  up  the  measure.  I  could  not 
restrain  my  tears. 

Thus  the  few  services  I  had  been  able  to  do  for 
others  had  been  acknowledged  by  them  a  hundred- 
fold !  I  had  sown  a  little  seed,  and  every  grain  had 
fallen  on  good  ground  and  brought  forth  a  whole 
sheaf.  Ah  !  this  completes  the  lesson  the  doctor 
gave  me.  If  it  is  true  that  the  diseases,  whether  of 
the  mind  or  body,  are  the  fruit  of  our  follies  anH 
our  vices,  sympathy  and  affection  are  also  the  re- 
wards of  our  having  done  our  duty.  Every  one  of 
us,  with  God's  help  and  within  the  narrow  limits 
of  human  capability,  himself  makes  his  own  dispo- 
sition, character,  and  permanent  condition. 


Everybody  is  gone  ;  the  old  soldier  has  brought 
me  back  my  flowers  and  my  birds,  and  they  are  my 
only  companions.    The  setting  sun  reddens  my  half- 


182  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PABIS. 

closed  curtains  with  its  last  raj^s.  My  brain  is  clear 
and  my  heart  lighter.  A  thin  mist  floats  before  my 
my  eyes,  and  I  feel  myself  in  that  happy  state 
which  precedes  a  refreshing  sleep. 

Yonder,  opposite  the  bed,  the  pale  goddess  in  her 
drapery  of  a  thousand  changing  colors,  and  with 
her  withered  garland,  again  appears  before  me  ;  but 
this  time  I  hold  out  my  hand  to  her  with  a  grateful 
smile. 

"  Adieu,  beloved  year  !  whom  I  but  now  unjustly 
accused.  That  which  I  have  suffered  must  not  be 
laid  to  thee  ;  for  thou  wast  but  a  tract  through 
which  God  had  marked  out  my  road — a  ground 
where  I  had  reaped  the  harvest  I  had  sown.  I  will 
love  thee,  thou  wayside  shelter,  for  those  hours  of 
happiness  thou  hast  seen  me  enjoy  ;  I  will  love  thee 
even  for  the  suffering  thou  hast  seen  me  endure. 
Neither  happiness  nor  suffering  came  from  thee  ; 
but  thou  hast  been  the  scene  for  them.  Descend 
again,  then,  in  peace,  into  eternity,  and  be  blest, 
thou  who  hast  left  me  experience  in  the  place  of 
youth,  sweet  memories  instead  of  past  time,  and 
gratitude  as  payment  for  good  offices." 


THE  END. 


IN  THE  CHIMNEY  CORNER 

BY 

EMILE  SOUVESTRE. 


TRANSLATED  BY 

A.  W.  AYER  AND  H.  T.  SLATE. 


TO    THE    EEADEE. 


Apart  from  the  direct  lessons  that  experience 
teaches  us,  there  are  others  for  which  our  imagina- 
tion is  entirely  responsible.  We  learn  not  only  by 
what  we  see,  but  by  what  we  imagine,  and  fables 
teach  as  manv  lessons  as  facts. 

Ideal  pictures  of  life  called  apologues,  poems, 
novels,  according  to  people  and  period,  have  always 
played  an  important  part  in  the  instruction  of  the 
Avorld.  In  the  Middle  Ages  tales  of  chivalry  told  by 
firelight  completed  the  education  of  the  knights  and. 
damosels  ;  in  these  yahliaiix  was  given  the  solution 
of  all  the  problems  of  love  or  chivalry  then  being 
discussed  ;  by  imaginary  examples  the}^  educated 
the  mind  to  recognize  what  it  should  choose  ;  in 
fact,  the}^  caused  the  romantic  to  unite  with  this 
home  training  of  the  character,  the  only  training 
that  endures  throughout  the  temptations  of  life  and 
constitutes  the  spirit  of  a  nation. 

In  our  day,  when  printing  has  taken  the  place  of 
oral  tradition  and  has  become  the  real  instructor  of 
the  world,  the  press,  under  another  name  and  with 
another  purpose,  continues  to  play  the  role  of  the 
minstrels  of  the  Middle  Ages  ;  it  is  from  the  press 
that  the  family  demands  romantic  tales  to  shorten 
leisure  hours.  These  tales  told  beneath  green  arbors 
in  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  or  in  the  chimnev 


186  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHEIi  IN  PARIS. 

corner  during  the  long  winter  evenings,  have  be- 
come at  once  a  habit  and  a  bond  of  union.  Thanks 
to  this  common  nourishment,  minds  develop  to- 
gether and  acquire  the  same  temperament,  so  to 
speak.  By  dint  of  associating  in  fancy  we  become 
accustomed  to  associate  in  fact. 

I^e  vous  soiivient-il  plus,  mon  fils,  de  ces  soirees 
Oil,  Toeil  fixe  sur  vous  et  nos  chaises  serrees, 
Kavis,  nous  ecoutions  quelque  recit  frappant 
Que  vous  lisiez  tout  haut,  en  vous  interrompant? 
Nous  sentions  s'allumer  en  nous  les  memes  flammes 
En  prenant  en  commun  ee  doux  repas  des  ames; 
Memes  pleurs,  memes  ris,  memes  pensers!    Alors 
Parmi  nous  s'exhalaient  de  merveilleux  accords, 
Et,  vibrant  dans  nos  seins  a  la  meme  secousse. 
La  lyre  interieure  elevait  sa  voix  douce! 
Oh!  comme  Ton  s'airaait  dans  ces  soirs  d'abandon! 
Quand  ils  n'irritent  pas,  les  pleurs  rendent  si  bon! 
Alors,  mon  fils,  nos  coeurs  n'avaient  qu'une  racine, 
De  tous  vos  sentiments  je  savais  Forigine, 
Et,  nous  tenant  la  main,  dans  le  monde  ideal 
Ensemble  nous  marchions  toujours  d'un  pas  4gal. 

Even  when  the  difference  in  natures  does  not  per- 
mit this  union,  some  enlightenment  is  gained  by 
each  ;  the  variety  of  sensations  reveals  the  character 
of  each  ;  each  is  enabled  to  know  the  other  better 
and,  consequently,  to  avoid  painful  collisions. 

But  the  choice  of  books  is  difficult !  This  family 
reading  assumes  something  of  an  official  character; 
it  is  an  act  of  domestic  magistracy,  the  responsi- 
bility of  which  falls  upon  the  head  of  the  family 


AN  A TTIG  PUILOSOPUER  IN  PARIS.  187 

and  requires  great  discretion.  Moreover,  the  human 
mind  has  its  tyrannies  and  its  reserves.  One  book, 
which  deliglits  or  moves  us  when  we  read  it  to  our- 
selves, would  lose  its  charm  if  we  heard  it  read 
aloud !  Now  it  is  a  subtle  perfume  that  can  be 
breathed  only  in  solitude,  now  emotions  that  touch 
us  so  deeply  that  we  are  embarrassed  by  the  looks 
of  a  third  person,  now  pictures  too  vivid  to  be  easily 
contemplated  by  more  than  one.  Domestic  in- 
timacy has  its  own  reservations ;  it  does  not  permit 
anything  to  be  read  that  it  does  not  allow  to  be 
said.  Moreover,  tiie  lack  of  universal  leisure  necessi- 
tates short  stories ;  people  like  to  carry  awa}^  with 
them  a  complete  impression  which  may  serve  as  a 
subject  for  reflection.  It  is  difficult  to  read  long 
books  and  it  is  apt  to  lead  to  encroachments  upon 
one's  duties,  and  then  the  ideal,  instead  of  elevating 
the  real,  ends  by  destroying  it. 

As  to  the  character  of  ordinary  novels,  it  is  even 
more  unsuited  to  family  reading.  While  some  auth- 
ors imitate  "  Amadis  de  Gaule  ''  and  never  emerge 
from  great  passions  or  from  great  adventures ; 
while  others,  mindful  of  the  real  world,  but  obliged 
at  all  cost  to  rouse  sated  interest,  seek  in  the  un- 
usual pictures  that  attract;  the  most  powerful 
writers  enter  the  very  heart  of  man  and  society  and 
unveil  their  somber  depths  before  us! 

For  each  of  them  there  is  doubtless  some  reason 
for  existence;  but  whatever  verdict  we  may  pass 
upon  their  creations,  we  must  at  least  admit  that 
they  are  not  suited  to  the  need  above  noted.     Below 


188  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

these  great  dramas  there  is  the  familiar  drama ;  far 
removed  from  the  clamorous  celebrities  that  weary 
the  press  is  the  humble  writer  who  does  not  seek 
to  go  beyond  the  domestic  circle :  it  is  for  the 
former  to  shine,  for  the  latter  to  be  loved ! 

The  tales  that  foJlow  are  only  an  attempt,  but 
perhaps  they  will  serve  as  an  initiative.  Among  so 
many  delightful  story-tellers,  whose  voices  ring  a 
little  false  in  shouting  amid  the  crowd,  there  may 
be  some  who  will  weary  at  last  of  the  turmoil 
called  fame ;  they  will  come  to  sit  under  the  home 
roof  and,  lowering  their  voices  to  the  tone  of  truth, 
they  will  let  us  hear  some  of  those  tales  that  are 
eternally  touching  because  eternally  true.  Then 
the  author  of  the  '*  Komans  de  Famille  "  will  hold 
his  peace  without  regret,  to  give  place  to  those  who 
are  more  worthy,  and  will  resume  his  seat  among 
the  listeners. 


AN  ATTIC  PEILOSOPEER  IN  PARIS,         189 


THE  POET  AND  THE  PEASANT. 


A  YOUNG  man  was  skirting  the  forest  that  sepa- 
rates Sainte-Marie-aux-Mines  from  Eibauville,  and 
in  spite  of  the  approach  of  night,  in  spite  of  the 
mist  that  grew  denser  every  moment,  he  was 
walking  slowly,  paying  no  heed  either  to  the 
weather  or  to  the  hour. 

His  dress  of  green  cloth,  his  buckskin  gaiters, 
and  the  gun  slung  across  his  shoulder  might  have 
caused  him  to  be  taken  for  a  sportsman,  had  not 
the  book  that  half-protruded  from  his  game-bag 
betrayed  the  dreamer,  for  whom  the  pursuit  of 
game  was  only  an  excuse  for  solitude.  At  this 
very  moment  the  meditative  unconcern  of  his  bear- 
ing contradicted  his  sportsmanlike  appearance,  and 
proved  that  Arnold  de  Munster  was  less  occupied 
with  observing  the  track  of  wild  game  than  with 
following  in  all  their  windings  the  vagaries  of  his 
mind. 

For  some  moments  the  latter  had  been  filled  with 
thoughts  of  his  family  and  of  the  friends  ne  had 
left  in  Paris.  He  remembered  the  studio  that  he 
had    adorned    with    fantastic    engravings,  strange 


190  ^^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

paintings,  curious  statuettes ;  the  German  songs  that 
his  sister  had  sung,  the  melancholy  verses  that  he 
had  repeated  in  the  subdued  light  of  the  evening 
lamps,  and  the  long  talks  in  which  every  one  con- 
fessed his  inmost  feelings,  in  which  all  the  mysteries 
of  thought  were  discussed  and  translated  into  im- 
passioned or  graceful  words !  Why  had  he  aban- 
doned these  choice  pleasures  to  bury  himself  in  the 
country  ?  Was  necessity  a  sufficient  excuse  for  this 
sort  of  deterioration  ?  Would  it  not  have  been  bet- 
ter to  face  a  loss  of  money  rather  than  this  prosaic 
provincial  existence  ?  What  would  become  of  the 
young  man's  delicate  and  refined  nature  in  the 
midst  of  the  vulgar  minds  that  surrounded  him  ? 

As  he  put  these  and  many  other  questions  to 
himself,  Arnold  de  Munster  had  walked  on  without 
noticing  the  way  he  was  taking.  He  was  aroused 
at  last  from  his  meditations  by  the  consciousness 
that  the  mist  had  changed  into  rain  and  was  be- 
ginning to  penetrate  his  shooting-coat.  He  was 
about  to  quicken  his  steps,  but  in  looking  around 
him  he  saw  that  he  had  lost  his  way  in  the 
intricacies  of  the  forest,  and  he  tried  vainly  to  de- 
termine the  direction  he  must  take.  A  first  at- 
tempt only  succeeded  in  bewildering  him  still  more. 
The  daylight  faded,  the  rain  fell  more  heavily,  and 
he  continued  to  plunge  at  random  into  unknown 
paths. 

He  had  begun  to  be  discouraged,  when  the  sound 
of  bells  reached  him  through  the  leafless  trees.  A 
cart  driven  by  a  big  man  in  a  blouse  had  appeared 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  191 

at  an  intersecting  road  and  was  coming  toward  the 
one  that  Arnold  had  just  reached. 

Arnold  stopped  to  wait  for  the  man  and  asked 
him  if  he  ^vere  far  from  Sersberg. 

"  Sersberg !"  repeated  the  carter ;  "  you  don't  ex- 
pect to  sleep  there  to-night  ?" 

"  Pardon  me,  but  I  do,"  answered  the  young  man. 

"At  the  Chateau  de  Sersberg?''  went  on  his  inter- 
locutor ;  "  you'll  have  to  go  by  train,  then  !  It  is 
six  good  leagues  from  here  to  the  gate ;  and  con- 
sidering the  weather  and  the  roads,  they  are  equal 
to  twelve." 

The  young  man  uttered  an  exclamation.  He  had 
left  the  chateau  that  morning  and  did  not  think  that 
he  had  wandered  so  far;  but  the  peasant  saw  from 
his  explanation  that  he  had  been  on  the  wrong  path 
for  hours,  and  that  in  thinking  to  take  the  road  to 
Sersberg  he  had  continued  to  turn  his  back  upon 
it.  It  was  too  late  to  make  good  such  an  error: 
the  nearest  village  was  a  league  distant  and  Arnold 
did  not  know  the  way  ;  so  he  was  forced  to  accept 
the  shelter  offered  by  his  new  companion,  whose 
farm  was  fortunately  within  gunshot. 

He  accordingly  regulated  his  pace  to  the  carter's 
and  attempted  to  enter  into  conversation  with  him ; 
but  Moser  w^as  not  a  talkative  man  and  was  ap- 
parently a  complete  stranger  to  the  young  man's 
usual  sensations.  When,  on  issuing  from  the  forest, 
Arnold  pointed  to  the  magnificent  horizon  purpled 
by  the  last  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  the  farmer  con- 
tented himself  with  a  grimace. 


192  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"Bad  weather  for  to-morrow,"  he  muttered, 
drawing  about  his  shoulders  the  limousine  that 
served  him  as  a  cloak. 

"  One  ought  to  be  able  to  see  the  entire  valley 
from  here,"  went  on  Arnold,  striving  to  pierce  the 
gloom  that  already  clothed  the  foot  of  the  mountain. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Moser,  shaking  his  head ;  "  the 
ridge  is  high  enough  for  that.  There's  an  inven- 
tion for  you  that  isn't  good  for  much." 

"  What  invention  ?" 

"  Eh,  paMeii !  the  mountains." 

"  You  would  rather  have  everything  level  ?" 

"  Tiens !  what  a  question !"  cried  the  farmer, 
laughing.  "  You  might  as  well  ask  me  if  I  would 
not  rather  ruin  my  horses." 

"  True,"  said  Arnold  in  a  tone  of  somewhat  con- 
temptuous irony.  "  I  had  forgotten  the  horses  !  It 
is  clear  that  God  should  have  thought  principally  of 
them  when  he  created  the  world." 

"  I  don't  know  as  to  God,"  answered  Moser 
quietly,  "  but  the  engineers  certainly  made  a  mis- 
take in  forgetting  them  when  they  made  the  roads. 
The  horse  is  the  laborer's  best  friend,  monsieur — 
without  disrespect  to  the  oxen,  which  have  their 
value  too." 

Arnold  looked  at  the  peasant. 

"  So  you  see  in  your  surroundings  only  the  ad- 
vantage you  can  derive  from  them  ?"  he  asked 
gravely.  "  The  forest,  the  mountains,  the  clouds, 
all  say  nothing  to  you  ?  You  have  never  paused 
before  the  setting  sun  or  at  the  sight  of  the  woods 
lighted  by  the  stars  ?" 


AN  ATTIC  PEILOSOPUER  IN  PARIS.  193 

"I?"  cried  the  farmer.  "Do  you  take  me  for  a 
maker  of  almanacs  ?  What  should  I  get  out  of 
your  starlight  and  the  setting  sun  ?  The  main 
thing  is  to  earn  enough  for  three  meals  a  day  and 
to  keep  one's  stomach  warm.  Would  monsieur 
like  a  drink  of  hirschwasser  f  It  comes  from  the 
other  side  of  the  Rhine." 

He  held  out  a  little  wicker-covered  bottle  to 
Arnold,  who  refused  by  a  gesture.  The  positive 
coarseness  of  the  peasant  had  rekindled  his  regret 
and  his  contempt.  Were  they  really  men  such  as 
he  was,  these  unfortunates,  doomed  to  unceasing 
labor,  who  lived  in  the  bosom  of  nature  without 
heeding  it  and  whose  souls  never  rose  above  the 
most  material  sensations  ?  What  was  the  world  of 
poetry,  to  which  the  young  man  owed  his  greatest 
happiness,  to  this  pitiful  portion  of  the  human  race? 
Led  by  the  halter  of  instinct,  did  it  not  seem  con- 
demned to  browse  outside  of  the  Eden  whose  gates 
a  privileged  nature  had  opened  to  him  ?  It  seemed 
to  lead  the  same  life  as  himself,  but  what  a  gulf 
between  their  souls !  Had  they  even  a  few  tastes 
in  common?  Was  there  one  point  of  resemblance 
which  could  attest  their  original  brotherhood  ? 
Arnold  doubted  this  more  and  more  each  moment. 
The  more  he  pondered  the  more  this  immaterial 
flower  of  all  things,  to  which  we  have  given  the 
name  of  poetry,  seemed  to  him  the  privilege  of  a 
chosen  few,  while  the  rest  vegetated  at  random 
within  the  limits  of  prose. 

These  thoughts  had  the  effect  of  communicating 


194  ^^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAPIS. 

to  his  manner  a  sort  of  contemptuous  indifference 
toward  tiis  conductor,  to  whom  he  ceased  to  talk. 
Moser  showed  neither  surprise  nor  pain  and  set  to 
whistling  an  air,  interrupted  from  time  to  time  by 
some  brief  word  of  encouragement  to  his  horses. 

Thus  they  arrived  at  the  farm,  where  the  noise 
of  the  bells  announced  their  coming.  A  young  boy 
and  a  woman  of  middle  age  appeared  on  the 
threshold. 

"Ah,  it  is  the  father !"  cried  the  woman,  looking 
back  into  the  house,  where  could  be  heard  the 
voices  of  several  children,  who  came  running  to  the 
door  with  shouts  of  joy  and  pressed  around  the 
peasant. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  youngsters,"  interrupted  the 
father  in  his  big  voice  as  he  rummaged  in  the  cart 
and  brought  forth  a  covered  basket.  *•  Let  Fritz 
unharness." 

But  the  children  continued  to  besiege  the  farmer, 
all  talking  at  once.  He  bent  to  kiss  them,  one 
after  another ;  then  rising  suddenly  : 

"  Where  is  Jean  ?"  he  asked  with  a  quickness  that 
had  something  of  uneasiness  in  it. 

"  Here,  father,  here,"  answered  a  shrill  little 
voice  from  the  farm-house  door ;  "  mother  doesn't 
want  me  to  go  out  in  the  rain." 

"  Stay  where  you  are,"  said  Moser,  throwing  the 
traces  on  the  backs  of  the  horses;  "1  will  go  to 
jou,Jiliot.  Go  in,  the  rest  of  you,  so  as  not  to 
tempt  him  to  come  out." 

The  three  children  went  back  to  the  doorway, 
"where  little  Jean  was  standing  beside  his  mother. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPEEM  IN  PARIS.  195 

He  was  a  poor  little  creature,  so  cruelly  deformed 
that  at  the  first  glance  one  could  not  have  told  his 
age  or  the  nature  of  his  infirmit}^  His  whole 
body,  distorted  by  sickness,  formed  a  curved,  not  to 
say  a  broken  line.  His  disproportionately  large 
head  was  sunken  between  two  unequallj'  rounded 
shoulders,  while  his  body  was  sustained  by  two 
little  crutches ;  these  took  the  place  of  the  shrunken 
legs,  which  could  not  support  him. 

At  the  farmer's  approach  he  held  out  his  thin 
arms  with  an  expression  of  love  that  made  Moser's 
furrowed  face  brighten.  The  father  lifted  him  in 
his  strong  arms  with  an  exclamation  of  tender 
delight. 

"Come!"  he  cried,  "hug  your  father — with  both 
arms — hard !     How  has  he  been  since  yesterday  V 

The  mother  shook  her  head. 

"Always  the  cough,"  she  answered  in  a  low  tone. 

"  It's  nothing,  father,"  the  child  answered  in  his 
shrill  voice.  "  Louis  had  drawn  me  too  fast  in  my 
wheeled  chair ;  but  I  am  well,  very  well ;  I  feel  as 
strong  as  a  man." 

The  peasant  placed  him  carefully  on  the  ground, 
set  him  upon  his  little  crutches,  which  had  fallen, 
and  looked  at  him  with  an  air  of  satisfaction. 

"Don't  you  think  he's  growing,  wife?"  he  asked 
in  the  tone  of  a  man  who  wishes  to  be  encouraged. 
"  Walk  a  bit,  Jean ;  walk,  boy  !  He  walks  more 
quickly  and  more  strongly.  It'll  all  come  right, 
wife;  we  must  only  be  patient." 

The  farmer's  wife  made  no   reply,  but  her  eyes 


196  A^  ATTIG  PEILOSOPHEU  IN  PARIS. 

turned  toward  the  feeble  child  with  a  look  of 
despair  so  deep  that  Arnold  trembled  ;  fortunately 
Moser  paid  no  heed. 

"  Come,  the  whole  brood  of  you,"  he  went  on, 
opening  the  basket  he  had  taken  from  the  cart ; 
"  here  is  something  for  every  one !  In  line  and 
hold  out  your  hands." 

The  peasant  had  displayed  three  small  white 
rolls  glazed  in  the  baking :  three  cries  of  joy  burst 
forth  simultaneously  and  six  hands  advanced  to 
seiz6  the  rolls,  but  they  all  paused  as  at  a  word  of 
command. 

"And  Jean  ?"  asked  the  childish  voices. 

"  To  the  devil  with  Jean,"  answered  Moser  gayly  ; 
"  there  is  nothing  for  him  to-night.  Jean  shall  have 
his  share  another  time.  " 

But  the  child  smiled  and  tried  to  get  up  to  look 
into  the  basket.  The  farmer  stepped  back  a  pace, 
took  off  the  cover  carefully,  and  lifting  his  arm  with 
an  air  of  solemnity,  displayed  before  the  eyes  of  all 
a  cake  of  gingerbread  garnished  with  almonds  and 
pink  and  white  sugar-plums. 

There  was  a  general  shout  of  admiration.  Jean 
himself  could  not  restrain  a  cry  of  delight;  a  slight 
flush  rose  to  his  pale  face  and  he  held  out  his  hands 
with  an  air  of  joyful  expectancy. 

"  Ah,  you  like  it,  petite  taupe  .^"  cried  the  peasant, 
whose  face  was  radiant  at  the  sight  of  the  child's 
pleasure ;  "  take  it,  7no7i  vieiix,  take  it ;  it  is  nothing 
but  sugar  and  honey." 

He  placed  the  gingerbread  in  the  hands  of  the  little 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  197 

hunchback,  who  trembled  with  happiness,  watched 
him  hobble  off,  and  turning  to  Arnold  when  the 
sound  of  the  crutches  was  lost  in  the  house,  said 
with  a  slight  break  in  his  voice  : 

"  He  is  my  eldest.  Sickness  has  deformed  him  a 
little,  but  he's  a  shrewd  fellow  and  it  only  depends 
upon  us  to  make  a  gentleman  of  him." 

While  speaking  he  had  crossed  the  first  room  on 
the  ground-floor  and  led  his  guest  into  a  species  of 
dinino:-room,  the  whitewashed  walls  of  which  were 
decorated  onl}^  with  a  few  rudely  colored  prints. 
As  he  entered,  Arnold  saw  Jean  seated  on  the  floor 
and  surrounded  by  his  brothers,  among  whom  he 
was  dividing  the  cake  given  him  by  his  father.  But 
each  one  objected  to  the  size  of  his  portion  and 
wished  to  lessen  it ;  it  required  all  the  little  hunch- 
back's eloquence  to  make  them  accept  what  he  had 
given  them.  For  some  time  the  3'oung  sportsman 
watched  this  dispute  with  singular  interest,  and 
when  the  children  had  gone  out  again  he  expressed 
his  admiration  to  the  farmer's  wife. 

''  It  is  quite  true,"  she  said  with  a  smile  and  a 
sigh,  "  that  there  are  times  when  it  seems  as  though 
it  were  a  good  thing  for  them  to  see  Jean's  infirm- 
ity. It  is  hard  for  them  to  give  up  to  each  other, 
but  not  one  of  them  can  refuse  Jean  anything  ;  it 
is  a  constant  exercise  in  kindness  and  devotion." 

"  Tiens  !  great  virtue,  that !"  interrupted  Moser. 
"Who  could  refuse  anything  to  such  a  poor,  afflict- 
ed little  innocent  ?  It's  a  silly  thing  for  a  man  to 
say ;    but,   look  you,   monsieur,   that  child   there 


198  AI^  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

always  makes  me  want  to  cry.  Often  when  I  am 
at  work  in  the  fields,  I  begin  all  at  once  to  think 
about  him.  I  say  to  myself  Jean  is  ill !  or  Jean 
is  dead !  and  then  I  have  to  find  some  excuse  for 
coming  home  to  see  how  it  is.  Then  he  is  so  weak 
and  so  ailing  !  If  we  did  not  love  him  more  than 
the  others,  he  would  be  too  unhappy." 

'*  Yes,"  said  the  mother  gently,  "  the  poor  child  is 
our  cross  and  our  joy  at  the  same  time.  I  love  all 
my  children,  monsieur,  but  whenever  I  hear  the 
sound  of  Jean's  crutches  on  the  floor,  I  always  feel 
a  rush  of  happiness.  It  is  a  sign  that  the  good  God 
has  not  yet  taken  our  darling  away  from  us.  It 
seems  to  me  as  though  Jean  brought  happiness  to 
the  house  just  like  swallows'  nests  fastened  to  the 
windows.  If  I  hadn't  him  to  take  care  of,  I  should 
think  there  was  nothing  for  me  to  do." 

Arnold  listened  to  these  na'ive  expressions  of 
tenderness  with  an  interest  that  was  mingled  with 
astonishment.  The  farmer's  wife  called  a  servant 
to  help  set  the  table  ;  and  at  Moser's  invitation,  the 
young  man  approached  the  brushwood  fire  which 
had  been  rekindled. 

As  he  was  leaning  against  the  smoky  mantel- 
piece, his  eye  fell  upon  a  small  black  frame  that 
inclosed  a  withered  leaf.     Moser  noticed  it. 

"  Ah  !  you  are  looking  at  my  relic.  It's  a  leaf  of 
the  weeping-willow  that  grows  down  there  on  the 
tomb  of  VAncien!"^     I  got  it  from  a  Strasbourg 

*  Napoleon. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  199 

merchant  who  had  served  in  the  Vieille.^  I 
wouldn't  part  with  it  for  a  hundred  crowns." 

"  Then  there  is  some  particular  sentiment  attached 
to  it  ?" 

"  Sentiment,  no,"  answered  the  peasant ;  "  but  I 
too  was  discharged  from  the  Fourth  Eegiment  of 
Hussars,  a  brave  regiment,  monsieur,  which  made  a 
strange  showing  at  Montmirail !  There  were  only 
eight  men  left  of  our  squadron,  so  when  the  Little 
Corporal  passed  in  front  of  the  line  he  saluted  us — 
yes,  monsieur,  raised  his  hat  to  us !  Tonerre ! 
That  was  something  to  make  us  ready  to  die  to  the 
last  man,  look  you.  Ah  !  he  was  the  father  of  the 
soldier !" 

Here  the  peasant  began  to  fill  his  pipe,  looking 
the  while  at  the  black  frame  and  the  withered  leaf. 
In  this  reminder  of  a  marvelous  destiny  there  was 
evidently  for  him  a  whole  romance  of  youth, 
emotion,  and  regret.  He  recalled  the  last  struggles 
of  the  Empire,  in  which  he  had  taken  part,  the 
reviews  held  by  the  emperor,  when  his  mere  pres- 
ence aroused  confidence  in  victory ;  the  passing 
successes  of  France's  famous  campaign,  so  soon  ex- 
piated by  the  disaster  at  Waterloo ;  the  departure 
of  the  vanquished  general  and  his  long  agony  on 
the  rock  of  St.  Helena.  All  these  pictures  in  suc- 
cession crossed  the  farmer's  mind,  his  brow  became 
furrowed,  his  thumb  pressed  more  heavily  upon  the 
pipe  that  had  long  been  filled,  and  he  whistled 
through  his  teeth  a  march  of  his  old  regiment. 

*  Old  Guard. 


200  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

Arnold  respected  the  old  soldier's  silent  preoccu- 
pation and  waited  until  he  should  resume  the  con- 
versation. 

The  arrival  of  supper  roused  him  from  his  reverie ; 
he  drew  up  a  chair  for  his  guest  and  took  his  place 
at  the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 

"  Come  !  fall  to  on  the  soup,"  he  cried  brusquely. 
"  I  have  had  nothing  since  morning  but  two  swallows 
of  Mrschwasser.    I  could  eat  an  ox  whole  to-night." 

To  prove  his  words,  he  began  to  empty  the  huge 
porringer  of  soup  before  him. 

For  several  moments  nothing  was  heard  but  the 
clatter  of  spoons  followed  by  that  of  the  knives  cut- 
ting up  the  flitch  of  bacon  served  by  the  farmer's 
wife.  His  walk  and  the  fresh  air  had  given  Arnold 
himself  an  appetite  that  made  him  forget  his 
Parisian  daintiness.  Moser's  bacon  seemed  to  have 
an  unknown  savor  and  his  wine  qualities  that  led 
Arnold  to  eat  that  he  might  drink  better  and  to 
drink  that  he  might  eat  better.  The  supper  grew 
gayer  and  gayer,  when  all  at  once  the  peasant 
raised  his  head. 

"  And  Farraut  ?"  he  asked.  "  I  have  not  seen 
him  since  my  return." 

His  wife  and  the  children  looked  at  each  other 
without  answering. 

"  Well,  what  is  it  ?"  went  on  Moser,  who  saw 
their  embarrassment.  *'  Where  is  the  dog?  What 
has  happened  to  him  ?  Why  don't  you  answer, 
Dorothee  V 

" Don't  be  angry,  father," interrupted  Jean;  "  we 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAUIS.  %{)l 

didn't  dare  tell  you,  but  Farraut  went  away  and 
has  not  come  back." 

"  Mille  diables !  You  should  have  told  me !" 
cried  the  peasant,  striking  the  table  with  his  fist. 
"What  road  did  he  take?" 

"  The  road  to  Garennes." 

"  "When  was  it  ?" 

"  After  dinner :  we  saw  him  go  up  the  little 
path." 

"  Something  must  have  happened  to  him,"  said 
Moser,  getting  up.  "  The  poor  animal  is  almost 
blind  and  there  are  sand  pits  all  along  the  road  ! 
Go  fetch  my  sheepskin  and  the  lantern,  wife.  I 
must  find  Farraut,  dead  or  alive." 

Dorothee  went  out  without  making  any  remark 
either  about  the  hour  or  the  weather,  and  soon  re- 
appeared with  what  her  husband  had  asked  of  her. 

"  You  must  think  a  great  deal  of  this  dog,"  said 
Arnold,  surprised  at  such  zeal. 

"  It  is  not  I,"  answered  Moser,  lighting  his  pipe  • 
"but  he  did  good  service  to  Dorothee's father.  One 
day  when  the  old  man  was  on  his  way  home  from 
Poutroye  with  the  price  of  his  oxen  in  his  pocket, 
four  men  tried  to  murder  him  for  his  money,  and 
they  would  have  done  it  if  it  had  not  been  for 
Farraut ;  so  when  the  good  man  died  two  years  ago, 
he  called  me  to  his  bedside  and  asked  me  to  care 
for  the  dog  as  for  one  of  his  children — those 
were  his  words.  I  promised,  and  it  would  be 
a  crime  not  to  keep  one's  promise  to  the  dead. 
Me  !  Fritz,  give  me  my  iron-shod  stick.     I  wouldn't 


202         ^^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

have  anything  happen  to  Farraut  for  a  pint  of 
my  blood.  The  animal  has  been  in  the  family  for 
twenty  years — he  knows  us  all  by  our  voices 
— and  he  recalls  the  grandfather.  I  shall  see 
you  again,  monsieur,  and  good-night  until  to- 
morrow." 

Moser  wrapped  himself  in  his  sheepskin  and  went 
out.  They  could  hear  the  sound  of  his  iron-shod 
stick  die  away  in  the  soughing  of  the  wind  and  the 
falling  of  the  rain. 

After  awhile  the  farmer's  wife  offered  to  con- 
duct Arnold  to  his  quarters  for  the  night,  but  Ar- 
nold asked  permission  to  await  the  return  of  the 
master  of  the  house^  if  his  return  were  not  delayed 
too  long.  His  interest  in  the  man  who  had  at  first 
seemed  to  him  so  vulgar,  and  in  the  humble  family 
whose  existence  he  had  thought  to  be  so  valueless, 
continued  to  increase. 

The  vigil  was  prolonged,  however,  and  Moser  did 
not  return.  The  children  had  fallen  asleep  one 
after  another,  and  even  Jean,  who  had  held  out  the 
longest,  had  to  seek  his  bed  at  last.  Dorothee,  un- 
easy, went  incessantly  from  the  fireside  to  the  door 
and  from  the  door  to  the  fireside.  Arnold  strove 
to  reassure  her,  but  her  mind  was  excited  by 
suspense.  She  accused  Moser  of  never  thinking  of 
his  health  or  of  his  safety  ;  of  always  being  ready 
to  sacrifice  himself  for  others ;  of  being  unable  to 
see  a  human  being  or  an  animal  suffer  without  risk- 
ing all  to  relieve  it ;  and  as  she  went  on  with  her 
complaint,  which  sounded  strangely  like  a  glorifi- 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  203 

cation,  her  fears  grew  more  vivid  ;  she  had  a  thou- 
sand gloomy  forebodings.  The  dog  had  howled  all 
through  the  previous  night ;  an  owl  had  perched 
upon  the  roof  of  the  house  ;  it  was  a  Wednesday, 
always  an  unfortunate  day  in  the  family.  Her  fears 
reached  such  a  pitch  at  last  that  the  young  man 
volunteered  to  go  in  search  of  her  husband,  and  she 
was  about  to  waken  Fritz  to  accompany  him,  when 
the  sound  of  footsteps  was  heard  outside. 

*'  It  is  Moser  !"  said  the  peasant  woman,  stopping 
short. 

" Hold !  he!  open  quickly  wife,"  cried  the  farmer 
from  without. 

She  ran  to  draw  the  bolt,  and  Moser  appeared, 
carrying  in  his  arms  the  old  blind  dog. 

"  Here  he  is,"  he  said  gayly.  "  God  help  me  !  I 
thought  I  should  never  find  him  :  the  poor  brute 
had  rolled  to  the  bottom  of  the  big  stone  quarry." 

"  And  you  went  there  to  get  him  V  asked  Doro- 
thee,  horror-stricken. 

"Should  I  have  left  him  at  the  bottom  to  find 
him  drowned  to-morrow  ?"  asked  the  old  soldier. 
"  I  slid  down  the  length  of  the  big  mountain  and  I 
carried  him  up  in  my  arms  like  a  child  :  the  lantern 
was  left  behind,  though." 

"  But  you  risked  your  life,  you  miserable  man !" 
cried  Dorothee,  who  was  shuddering  at  her  hus- 
band's explanation. 

The  latter  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Ah,  bah  !"  he  said  with  careless  gayety ;  "  who 
risks  nothing  has  nothing  ;  I  have  found  Farraut — 


204  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PABIS. 

that's  the  principal  thing.     If  the  grandfather  sees 
us  from  up  there,  he  ought  to  be  satisfied." 

This  reflection,  made  in  an  almost  indifferent  tone, 
touched  Arnold,  who  held  out  his  hand  impetuous- 
ly to  the  peasant. 

"  What  you  have  done  was  prompted  by  a  good 
heart,"  he  said  with  feeling. 

"  What  ?  Because  I  have  kept  a  dog  from  drown- 
ing ?"  answered  Moser.  "  Pardieu  !  dogs  and  men 
— thank  God  I  have  helped  more  than  one  out  of  a 
hole  since  I  was  born  ;  but  1  have  sometimes  had 
better  w^eather  than  to-night  to  do  it  in.  Say, 
wife,  there  must  be  a  glass  of  cognac  left ;  bring  the 
bottle  here ;  there  is  nothing  that  dries  you  better 
when  you're  wet." 

Dorothee  brought  the  bottle  to  the  farmer,  who 
drank  to  his  guest's  health,  and  then  each  sought 
his  bed. 

The  next  morning  the  weather  was  fine  again ; 
the  sky  was  clear  and  the  birds,  shaking  their 
feathers,  sang  on  the  still  dripping  trees. 

When  he  descended  from  the  garret,  where  a  bed 
had  been  prepared  for  him,  Arnold  found  near  the 
door  Farraut,  who  was  warming  himself  in  the  sun, 
while  little  Jean,  seated  on  his  crutches,  was  making 
him  a  collar  of  eglantine  berries.  A  little  further 
on,  in  the  first  room,  the  farmer  was  clinking  glasses 
with  a  beggar  who  had  come  to  collect  his  weekly 
tithe ;  Dorothee  was  holding  his  wallet,  which  she 
was  filling. 

"  Come,  old  Henry,  one  more  draught,"  said  the 


Air  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  205 

peasant,  refilling  the  beggar's  glass  ;  "  if  you  mean 
to  finish  your  round  you  must  take  courage." 

"That  one  always  finds  here,"  said  the  beggar 
with  a  smile ;  "  there  are  not  many  houses  in  the 
parish  where  they  give  more,  but  there  is  not  one 
where  they  give  with  such  good  will." 

"  Be  quiet,  will  you,  Pere  Henriot  ?"  interrupted 
Moser ;  "  do  people  talk  of  such  things?  Drink  and 
let  the  good  God  judge  each  man's  actions.  You, 
too,  have  served  ;  \\q  are  old  comrades." 

The  old  man  contented  himself  with  a  shake  of 
the  head  and  touched  his  glass  to  the  farmer's ;  but 
one  could  see  that  he  was  more  moved  by  the  hearti- 
ness that  accompanied  the  alms  than  the  alms  them- 
selves. 

When  he  had  taken  up  his  wallet  again  and  bade 
them  good-by,  Moser  watched  him  go  until  he  had 
disappeared  around  a  bend  in  the  road.  Then  draw- 
ing a  loud  breath,  he  said,  turning  to  his  guest : 

"  One  more  poor  old  man  w^ithout  a  home.  You 
may  believe  me  or  not,  monsieur,  but  when  I  see 
men  with  shaking  heads  going  about  like  that,  beg- 
ging their  bread  from  door  to  door,  it  turns  my 
blood.  I  should  like  to  set  the  table  for  them  all 
and  touch  glasses  with  them  all  as  I  did  just  now 
with  Pere  Henri.  To  keep  your  heart  from  break- 
ing at  such  a  sight,  you  must  believe  that  there  is  a 
w^orld  up  there  where  those  who  have  not  been 
summoned  to  the  ordinary  here  will  receive  double 
rations  and  double  pay." 

"  You  must  hold  to  that  belief,"  said  Arnold ;  "  it 


206  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

will  support  and  console  you.  It  will  be  long  be- 
fore I  shall  forget  the  hours  I  have  passed  in  your 
house,  and  I  trust  they  will  not  be  the  last." 

"  Whenever  you  choose,"  said  the  old  soldier  ;  ^-'if 
you  don't  find  the  bed  up  there  too  hard  and  if  you 
can  digest  our  bacon  come  at  your  pleasure,  and  we 
shall  always  be  under  obligations  to  you." 

He  shook  the  hand  that  the  young  man  had  ex- 
tended, pointed  out  the  way  that  he  must  take,  and 
did  not  leave  the  threshold  until  he  had  seen  his 
guest  disappear  in  the  turn  of  the  road. 

For  some  time  Arnold  walked  with  lowered  head, 
but  upon  reaching  the  summit  of  the  hill  he  turned 
to  take  a  last  backward  look,  and  seeing  the  farm- 
house chimney,  above  which  curled  a  light  wreath 
of  smoke,  he  felt  a  tear  of  tenderness  rise  to  his 
eye. 

"  May  God  always  protect  those  who  live  under 
that  roof !"  he  murmured  ;  ^'  for  where  pride  made 
me  see  creatures  incapable  of  understanding  the 
finer  qualities  of  the  soul,  I  have  found  models  for 
myself.  I  judged  the  depths  by  the  surface  and 
thought  poetry  absent  because,  instead  of  showing 
itself  without,  it  hid  itself  in  the  heart  of  the  things 
themselves  ;  ignorant  observer  that  I  was,  I  pushed 
aside  with  my  foot  what  I  thought  were  pebbles, 
not  guessing  that  in  these  rude  stones  were  hidden 
diamonds." 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHBU  IN  PARIS.  207 


THE  SCULPTOE  OF  THE  BLACK 
FOEEST. 


It  is  impossible  to  travel  through  the  duchy  of 
Baden  without  being  impressed  by  the  peaceful  and 
at  the  same  time  savage  aspect  of  the  country. 
There  is  no  other  country,  perhaps,  where  the  con- 
trasts are  more  happily  combined.  It  is  all  har- 
monious and  effective,  like  a  vast  park  of  which 
God  has  been  the  desio:ner  and  where  he  has  brouo^ht 
together  all  the  beauties  of  nature. 

But  it  is  on  the  outskirts  of  the  Black  Forest  that 
the  scenery  is  especially  impressive.  There  the 
valleys  that  extend  to  the  Rhine  narrow  all  at  once 
and  end  by  being  nothing  but  clefts  in  the  rock, 
barely  giving  passage  to  the  small  horses  of  the 
manufacturers  of  Mrschioasser.  Seen  from  a  height, 
they  form  a  huge  triangle  whose  base  borders  the 
river  and  whose  apex  joins  the  mountain  in  a  nar- 
row path. 

The  grass  in  these  valleys,  watered  by  warm  min- 
eral springs,  grows  to  the  height  of  grain,  always 
undulating  and  dotted  with  more  flowers  than  a 
botanist  could  classify  in  a  day  ;  a  carpet  of  velvet 
and  silk  stretched  at  the  edge  of  the  forest. 


208  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

The  latter  covers  the  hills,  about  which  it  winds, 
forming  a  thousand  spirals  of  verdure,  and  stopping 
short  of  the  highest  summits,  which  here  and  there 
raise  their  bald  and  snow-whitened  heads. 

It  was  between  two  of  these  hills  at  the  bottom 
of  one  of  the  narrow  gorges  where  the  valleys 
ended  that  there  lived  some  years  ago  a  young 
man  called  Herman  Cloffer,  whose  story  the  old 
.  men  still  repeat  to  their  children.  We  give  it  here, 
not  as  it  is  told  in  the  mountains,  but  as  we  heard 
it  from  the  pastor  at  Baden  wilier,  with  all  its  de- 
tails and  all  its  moral;  for  the  pastor  had  loved 
Herman  from  his  childhood,  and  on  his  death-bed 
the  young  man  had  made  him  his  confidant. 

Herman  was  the  son  of  a  schoolmaster.  His 
father  had  given  him  some  instruction  :  he  knew  a 
little  Latin,  played  the  violin,  and  spoke  French 
quite  fluently ;  so  he  came  to  be  known  in  the 
country  as  Maister  Cloft'er. 

Being  occupied  from  childhood  with  wood-carv- 
ing, as  were  all  the  mountaineers,  he  had  gradually 
acquired  a  taste  for  the  work  and  had  come  to  carve 
children's  toys  with  considerable  skill ;  but  a  trip  to 
Bale,  where  he  saw  some  Gothic  wainscoting,  w^as 
a  revelation  to  him.  He  understood  what  art  was 
and  what  human  patience  could  accomplish.  From 
that  moment  his  vocation  was  decided  upon. 
Leaving  in  Bale  the  toys  to  which  he  had  once 
devoted  himself,  he  began  to  carve  in  wood  every- 
thing that  struck  his  eye,  studjang  the  smallest  de- 
tails, finishing  only  to  begin  again,  and  beginning 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  209 

again  only  to  finish  again  ;  in  short,  leaving  nothing 
incomplete  and  working  with  a  fervent  love  for  the 
work  and  for  it  alone. 

This  conscientious  application  was  not  long  in 
having  its  result.  His  attempts,  at  first  confused 
and  faulty,  became  more  true  to  nature,  more  clear, 
more  bold  ;  the  diflficulties  of  execution  disappeared 
to  give  place  to  the  difficulties  of  art.  Soon  Her- 
man had  no  longer  to  strive  for  form,  but  for  action  ; 
the  science  had  been  acquired  it  now  remained  to 
prove  his  genius. 

Then  began  for  the  young  man  that  struggle  be- 
tween the  sentiment  that  wishes  to  express  itself 
and  in  ertmatter  that  resists  :  a  struggle  so  full  of  joy 
when  it  is  successful  and  the  work  of  creation 
accomplished ! 

One  would  have  said,  indeed,  that  the  wood  obeyed 
Herman's  every  conception ;  he  seemed  to  mold 
and  fashion  it  by  the  simple  contact  of  his  thought. 
Occupied  solely  with  his  \vork,  wishing  to  produce 
it  as  perfect  as  he  imagined  it,  he  lost  himself  in  it 
completely,  he  quickened  it  with  his  desires.  Noth- 
ing that  he  did  was  the  result  of  a  combination  or 
of  a  S3^stem,  but  of  an  impression  ;  he  understood 
art  as  the  visible  expression  of  a  human  soul  face 
to  face  with  nature. 

His  carvings,  originally  confounded  with  the  rude 
work  of  the  forest  herdsmen,  ended  by  attracting 
attention.  There  was  a  demand  for  them  from 
Baden  at  first,  then  from  Munich,  Vienna,  Berlin. 
The  dealer  who  had  bought  the  first  at  a  miserable 


210  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  m  PARIS. 

sum  urged  the  young  man  to  supply  him  with  more, 
promising  to  pay  him  a  better  price. 

Herman,  who  since  his  father's  death  had  been 
his  mother's  sole  support,  was  happy  to  see  that  by 
his  work  he  could  assure  her  a  peaceful  old  age. 
Indeed,  an  unaccustomed  ease  soon  began  to  make 
itself  felt  in  the  hut :  they  were  able  to  add  a  few 
modest  bits  of  furniture  to  the  humble  household, 
renovate  the  holiday  wardrobe,  and  sometimes  in 
the  evenings,  when  their  neighbors  came  in,  to 
offer  them  a  dish  of  ]i:neft  and  a  bottle  of  Ehine 
wine.  At  such  times  Herman  would  take  up  his 
violin  and  accompany  his  mother,  who  sang  in  a 
voice  still  resonant  old  Swabian  airs  or  some  of 
Schiller's  ballads,  which  the  schoolmaster  had 
taught  her. 

Thus  Cloffer's  days  were  divided  between  work 
and  quiet  pleasures :  he  left  all  money  matters  to 
Dorothee.  Free  from  all  material  care,  his  life  was 
one  continual  and  fruitful  meditation  ;  nothing  drew 
him  from  his  ideal  world  but  the  simple  pleasures 
of  the  neighborhood  and  family  affection.  He 
could  give  himself  up  completely  to  the  delights  of 
creating,  talk  long  and  familiarly  with  his  genius. 
Two-thirds  of  his  time  was  devoted  to  its  sole  in- 
spiration, and  absorbed  in  art  as  the  saints  in  pious 
contemplation,  he  felt  none  of  the  buffetings  of  real 
life. 

One  summer  evening  as  he  was  seated  at  the 
door  of  his  hut,  smoking  his  meerschaum  pipe  and 
holding  on   his   knees   his  violin,  from   which  he 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  RIS.  211 

occasionally  drew  a  few  vague  strains,  a  horseman 
turned  suddenly  into  the  path. 

He  was  a  stranger,  of  about  forty,  and  his  dress 
and  bearing  showed  him  to  be  a  man  of  the  world. 
He  drew  rein  a  few  paces  from  the  hut  and  looked 
about  him  with  an  eyeglass ;  at  last  his  glance  fell 
upon  the  young  man. 

"Ah,  here  is  what  I  am  looking  for,"  he  ex- 
claimed in  French,  and  coming  forward  : 

^'  Can  you  tell  me  where  I  can  find  Herman  the 
sculptor  ?"  he  asked  in  almost  unintelligible  German. 

"  I  am  he,"  answered  Cloffer,  rising. 

"  You  !"  cried  the  stranger.  "  Pardieu  !  that's  a 
coincidence !" 

And  dismounting  from  his  horse,  he  tossed  the 
reins  to  a  servant  in  livery  who  had  joined  him. 

"  1  was  looking  for  you,  maister,"  he  went  on 
easily.  "  I  am  a  Frenchman — you  doubtless  guessed 
as  much  from  my  German — and  a  collector.  I 
have  seen  your  carvings.    I  have  come  to  buys  ome." 

Herman  led  him  into  the  hut. 

"  Is  this  where  you  work  ?  asked  the  Frenchman, 
casting  a  surprised  glance  about  the  smoky  room. 

"  Near  that  window,"  answered  Cloffer. 

And  he  showed  the  stranger  a  long  table  upon 
which  lay  several  finished  carvings.  Beneath  the 
table  were  piled  rough-hewn  blocks  of  pine  ;  his  few 
tools  were  hung  upon  the  wall. 

"  What !     You  have  no  other  work-room  ?" 

"  No,  monsieur." 

The  collector  raised  his  glass  to  his  right  eye. 


212  ^^  ^  TTIO  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  MIS. 

"  Marvelous !"  he  murmured  ;  "  such  masterpieces 
in  this  hole.  But,  Maister  Herman — that  is  what 
they  call  you,  I  believe — you  lack  everything  here  : 
vou  have  no  stimulus,  no  advisers." 

"  I  try  to  reproduce  what  I  see  as  I  feel  it,"  an- 
swered Cloffer  simply  ; "  here  are  goats  copied  from 
nature,  a  bull  and  a  child " 

"  Charming !"  interrupted  the  stranger,  taking  the 
two  carvings  which  Herman  handed  to  him ;  "  such 
delicacy,  such  a  touch — I  will  buy  them.  Your 
price  ?" 

Herman  mentioned  it. 

*'  Done,"  answered  the  Frenchman,  who  seemed 
amazed  at  the  lowness  of  the  price ;  "  but,  my  dear 
maister,  do  you  know  I  have  moved  heaven  and 
earth  to  find  you?  The  dealers  who  sell  your  work 
in  Germany  either  don't  know  your  name  or  con- 
ceal it,  and  I  could  not  discover  the  Jew  who  buys 
from  you  at  first  hand.  I  had  to  apply  to  our  am- 
bassador at  Yienna,  who  caused  the  police  to  make 
inquiries.  In  short,  I  learned  your  name,  and  as  I 
was  passing  through  Badenwiller  I  wished  to  see 
you." 

Herman  bowed. 

"  You  have  no  idea  of  the  reputation  you  already 
have  in  Germany,"  went  on  the  stranger ;  "  people 
fight  over  your  carvings.  I  saw  some  in  M.  de 
Metternich's  study.  You  do  not  intend  to  remain 
here,  of  course  ?" 

"Excuse  me,  monsieur,"  Herman  answered,  "I 
have  no  idea  of  leaving  the  forest." 


-      AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  213 

"  What !  But  that  means  giving  up  your  future  ; 
think  of  vegetating  here  forever  !" 

"  I  am  happy  here,  monsieur." 

"Happy  !"  repeated  the  stranger,  staring  through 
his  eyeglass  at  Herman's  rough  dress ;  "  that  proves 
that  3^ou  are  a  philosopher,  my  dear  maister :  but 
you  haven't  even  a  studio  here.  Think  of  sculptur- 
ing three  paces  from  a  fire-place  where  bacon  and 
sauerkraut  are  cooked!  No  one  but  a  German 
could  lead  such  a  life." 

"  What  should  I  gain  by  changing  it  ?"  asked 
Herman. 

" Fame,  first  of  all!  So  far  your  work  is  known, 
but  not  your  name.  You  must  take  your  place,  my 
dear  maister ;  above  all,  you  must  make  your  for- 
tune." 

"  Make  my  fortune !"  repeated  Cloffer  in  astonish- 
ment ;  "  by  what  means  ?" 

"  Why,  pardieu^  by  your  toys,"  cried  the  French- 
man. "  Don't  you  know  that  nowadays  our  artists 
live  like  young  men  of  good  family  ?  You  must 
profit  by  the  progress  of  the  century,  Herman  ;  you 
must  come  to  Paris !  I  w^ill  introduce  you  to  a  set 
of  journalists  who  will  make  a  Michael  Angelo  in 
miniature  of  you  ;  before  two  years  are  up  you  will 
have  a  groom  and  a  tilbury." 

"  Is  it  possible  ?" 

"  It  is  certain,  and  since  chance  has  brought  us 
together,  I  want  you  to  profit  by  it.     Light  will  not 

remain  hidden  under  a  bushel ;  believe  me come 

to  Paris," 


214  ^N  A TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"  I  cannot  think  of  it,"  murmured  the  sculptor, 
shaking  his  head. 

"  Why  not  V 

''  I  have  my  habits,  my  friends,  above  all  my 
mother " 

"In  Paris  you  will  find  something  to  take  the 
place  of  all  these." 

"  No,  no." 

"  Reflect,  I  beg  of  you,"  went  on  the  Frenchman, 
who  in  trying  to  convince  Cloffer  had  convinced 
himself ;  "  reflect  that  here  you  will  always  live  as  a 
peasant.  You  remind  me  of  a  prince  brought  up  in 
exile,  ignorant  that  a  crown  awaits  him  elsewhere ; 
it  is  this  crown  that  I  have  come  to  offer  you.  You 
are  asked  only  to  renounce  your  old  dress,  your  old 
roof,  and  you  are  promised  riches,  success !  You 
are  not  a  German  for  nothing  ;  you  are  fond  of  the 
theater  and  of  champagne,  I  suppose ;  you  shall 
have  all  that,  maister,  in  exchange  for  your  small 
beer.  Make  up  your  mind,  then,  and  I  will  take  you 
with  me  in  my  post-chaise." 

Herman  was  about  to  answer,  but  he  trembled 
suddenly  and  stopped;  his  eyes  had  just  met 
Dorothee's. 

She  had  entered  a  few  moments  before,  and  al- 
though she  did  not  understand  French,  her  mother's 
eye  had  divined  from  Herman's  agitation  that 
something  extraordinary  \vas  passing. 

"  What  is  the  stranger  saying  to  you  ?"  she  asked 
in  German. 

"  He  is  telling  me  about  his  country,  mother," 
answered  Cloffer. 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  215 

"And  he  proposes  that  you  should  go  there, 
perhaps  ?" 

Herman  gave  a  sign  of  assent. 

"Remember  that  those  who  love  you  live  here," 
said  the  old  woman  quicklj^ 

"  I  shall  not  forget  it,"  answered  Herman. 

"  Well  ?"  asked  the  Frenchman,  who  had  tried  in 
vain  to  understand. 

"  I  cannot  leave  my  mother,  monsieur,"  answered 
Cloffer  gravely. 

And  as  the  stranger  was  about  to  insist : 

"  My  mind  is  made  up,"  he  went  on  brusquely  ; 
"  nothing  will  change  it." 

The  Frenchman  made  a  movement  of  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"As  you  will,  raaister,"  he  said,  "  but  you  are 
sacrificing  your  fortune." 

Then  he  added : 

"  I  left  some  ladies  at  Badenwiller,  as  they  were 
too  tired  to  come  with  me.  They  will  buy  all  you 
have  left.  Would  you  not  like  to  take  the  carvings 
to  the  ladies  yourself  ?  We  still  have  time  to  get 
there  for  dinner." 

Cloffer  consented  after  some  hesitation. 

It  was  late  when  he  returned  ;  the  strangers  had 
kept  him  to  dinner  at  the  hotel.  His  mother  tried 
to  question  him,  but  he  answered  her  shortly  and  in 
a  tone  of  suppressed  impatience. 

The  following  morning  he  went  to  work  deject- 
edly and  did  not  speak  the  entire  day.  It  was 
easy  to  see  that  his  soul  was  no  longer  filled  with 


216  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

that  contentment  that  formerly  found  expression  in 
words.  Dorothee  hoped  that  his  sadness  would  be 
only  temporary  and  neglected  no  means  of  dissi- 
pating it. 

But  a  great  revolution  was  going  on  within  the 
young  sculptor.  As  long  as  he  had  seen  no  one 
but  his  friends  and  neighbors,  he  had  allowed  him- 
self to  live  as  they  did,  without  ambition,  confining 
his  desires  to  the  simple  pleasures  with  which  he 
was  familiar  and  imagining  nothing  beyond.  The 
appearance  and  the  words  of  the  stranger  had 
transformed  him. 

He  had  at  first  listened  to  his  account  as  to  the 
fairy  tales  that  had  delighted  him  as  a  child  ;  but 
the  ladies  whom  he  had  seen  at  the  hotel  had 
confirmed  all  that  their  companion  had  said  :  one 
of  them  had  done  more,  she  had  offered  herself  as 
an  example.  A  few  years  ago,  poor  as  Herman 
was  then,  she  owed  to  her  singing  the  wealth  with 
which  he  saw  her  surrounded ;  and  by  this  wealth 
the  young  sculptor  had  been  dazzled. 

The  thought  that  he  himself  could  attain  to  it 
made  his  brain  whirl.  In  vain  I  know  not  what 
wise  instinct  whispered  to  him  to  fly  from  these 
illusive  temptations;  all  the  bad  passions,  so  long 
dormant,  were  roused  within  him,  singing  in  chorus 
like  the  witches  in  Macbeth :  "  Thou  shalt  be  rich, 
thou  shalt  be  famous !"  and  Herman  was  ready  to 
yield  to  these  intoxicating  promises. 

It  was  not  long  before  he  became  indifferent  to 
what  had  once  delighted  him :  the  picture  of  Paris 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPUER  TN  PARIS.  217 

interposed  itself  between  him  and  all  things  ;  it 
was  like  a  fatal  shadow  that  prevented  the  sun  of 
happiness  from  reaching  him.  He  worked  abstract- 
edly, began  a  thousand  sketch*es,  finishing  none  of 
them  and  finding  distaste  in  everything. 

His  health  began  to  sufl'er  from  these  new  pre- 
occupations, and  a  slow  fever  began  to  undermine 
it.  Until  then  his  mother  had  kept  silent,  but 
when  she  saw  him  fall  into  this  languor,  more 
dangerous  than  despair,  she  hesitated  no  longer. 

"May  God  forgive  these  strangers  for  what  they 
have  done,  Herman  !"  she  said.  "  They  came  here, 
like  the  serpent  into  the  earthly  paradise,  to  tempt 
you  to  eat  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge.  But 
the  evil  is  done,  my  son,  and  you  cannot  remain 
here.  Go,  since  we  can  no  longer  make  you 
happy." 

Cloffer  tried  to  protest,  but  the  old  woman  had 
not  spoken  until  she  had  made  the  sacrifice  in  her 
own  heart.  She  removed  all  obstacles  with  the 
ingenious  ease  God  gives  only  to  mothers  and  that 
self-abnegation  that  women  show  us  without  being 
able  to  teach  us.  The  pre])arations  were  completed 
in  a  fe\v  days.  Dorothee  herself  washed  Herman's 
linen,  mended  his  clothes,  and  saw  to  all  the  details, 
so  that  it  would  be  a  long  time  before  he  should 
feel  the  need  of  her.  She  had  given  him  the 
greater  part  of  her  savings  and  advised  him  not  to 
economize  them,  but  to  deprive  himself  of  nothing. 

"  What  I  keep  with  me  is  yours  like  the  rest," 
she  added.  "  Be  happy  if  you  can  :  I  have  no  other 
wish." 


218  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

Herman  accepted  all  this  care  and  forethought 
with  gratitude,  but  at  the  same  time  with  a  joy  that 
wrung  his  mother's  heart.  Since  it  had  been  decid- 
ed that  he  should  go  to  Paris  he  had  regained  his 
health  ;  he  talked  more  loudly,  sang  incessantly, 
and  worked  with  ardor.  He  did  not  wish  to  arrive 
in  the  great  city  with  empty  hands,  and  he  expend- 
ed all  his  art  on  a  group  of  children,  which  he 
meant  to  show  as  a  proof  of  his  skill. 

At  last  the  day  of  departure  arrived  :  the  separa- 
tion was  heart-rending.  Herman  twice  laid  down 
his  staff,  declaring  that  he  would  not  go ;  but  his 
mother  overcame  her  own  anguish  that  she  might 
give  him  courage. 

The  novelty  of  scene  and  the  stir  of  travel  soon 
created  a  diversion  in  the  young  man's  thoughts. 
As  he  went  further  from  his  native  place,  regret 
gave  place  to  curiosity.  On  foot,  his  blackthorn 
staff  in  his  hand  and  on  his  shoulders  his  leathern 
knapsack,  he  hastened  on  faster  and  faster,  asking 
every  night  what  distance  still  separated  him  from 
Paris.  The  way  seemed  hopelessly  long,  but  he 
felt  neither  fatigue  nor  ennui  ;  strengthened  by  im- 
patience, he  walked  on  without  stopping,  commun- 
ing all  the  time  with  his  hopes.  Whenever  a  hand- 
some carriage  drawn  by  a  fast  horse  passed  him,  he 
said  to  himself : 

"  I  too  shall  soon  be  traveling  like  that." 

Whenever  his  eyes  w^ere  attracted  by  a  country 
house  partly  hidden  among  the  acacias^  he  mur- 
mured : 


AN  ATTIC  PIIILOSOPHEU  IN  PARIS.  219 

"  A  little  while  longer  and  I  shall  have  one  like 
it." 

And  thus  he  went  on  joyously,  taking  possessiuii, 
in  the  future,  of  all  that  pleased  his  eye  or  aroused 
his  desires. 

At  last,  after  twenty  days  of  journeying,  he  saw 
before  him  a  confused  mass  that  hid  the  horizon 
and  above  which  floated  a  cloud  of  vapor;  it  was 
Paris. 

The  stranger  on  taking  leave  of  him  at  Baden- 
willer  had  given  his  address  to  Herman,  urging  him 
to  make  use  of  it  if  he  should  ever  decide  to  come 
to  Paris.  The  young  sculptor,  imm.ediately  upon 
his  arrival,  hastened  to  the  Rue  Saint-Lazare,  where 
M.  de  Riol  had  his  apartments. 

The  latter  uttered  an  exclamation  of  amazement 
at  the  sight  of  Cloffer. 

^'  You  here,  maister  !"  he  cried.  ''  Has  the  moun- 
tain slid  into  your  valley  ?  Have  the  charcoal- 
burners  of  your  forest  burned  down  3"our  hut  ?  Or 
are  you  a  fugitive  for  political  reasons  ?" 

"  My  hut  is  still  in  its  place,"  answered  Herman, 
smiling,  "  and  the  duke  has  no  more  faithful  subject 
than  I  am." 

"  So  you  are  in  Paris  voluntarily  ?" 

"  Voluntarily." 

"And  what  has  worked  this  miracle?" 

"  Your  words,  monsieur." 

The  Frenchman  looked  with  surprise  at  the 
young  German,  who  proceeded  to  explain  all  that 
had  passed. 


29.0  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

'*  So/^  went  on  De  Eiol  when  Herman  had  finished, 
"so,  my  dear  maister,  you  have  come  to  Paris  to 
make  your  fortune  ?" 

"  I  have  come  to  make  myself  known." 
"  That's  what  I  mean  ;  we  will  help  you  do  it." 
"  Indeed,  I  rely  upon  your  advice  and  upon  your 
protection." 

"  You  are  right ;  but  first  of  all  I  want  you  to  see 
our  famous  artists.  I  shall  have  several  of  them 
here  to-morrow  ;  come  and  dine,  with  us  and  bring 
some  of  your  work." 

"  Agreed." 

"Until  to-morrow,  then,  but  late;  for  we  dine 
here  at  the  time  you  have  supper  in  your  Germany." 

"  Until  to-morrow  at  seven." 

"  That's  right." 

They  shook  hands  and  separated. 

Herman  employed  a  part  of  the  day  in  seeking  a 
lodging.  He  then  strolled  through  the  public 
gardens,  admiring  the  statues  and  pausing  in  ecstasy 
before  the  monuments. 

The  following  day  he  was  at  De  Kiol's  at  the 
hour  indicated  and  found  his  friend  surrounded  by  a 
dozen  or  so  young  men  to  whom  he  was  introduced. 

He  had  brought  with  him  his  group  of  children, 
which  aroused  general  admiration  ;  one  artist  de- 
clared that  there  were  touches  of  Benvenuto  and 
Goujon  combined  ;  a  sculptor  compared  Herman  to 
Dominiquin ;  and  a  journalist  who  was  present 
came  to  press  his  hand,  declaring  that  on  the  follow- 
ing day  he  would  proclaim  him  in  his  fouilleton  as 
the  Canova  of  the  Black  Forest. 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  221 

Then  they  sat  down  to  table  and  the  conversation 
turned  almost  exclusively  upon  painting  and  sculp- 
ture. Herman  was  profoundly  astonished  at  what 
he  heard  said  on  these  subjects.  All  the  guests  com- 
plained of  the  decadence  of  art  and  of  the  bad  taste 
of  the  public,  which  forced  them  to  follow  a  wrong 
path.  If  the  old  masters  had  been  so  great  and 
they  themselves  were  so  little,  it  was  to  be  attrib- 
uted, they  said,  to  the  difference  of  the  times.  Now- 
adays genius  was  misunderstood,  talent  impossible  ! 
And  all  repeated  in  chorus  in  melancholy  tones  as 
they  emptied  their  long  glasses,  where  the  cham- 
pagne was  frothing  :  "  Art  is  dying !  Art  is  dead  !" 

As  to  the  causes  of  this  decadence,  some  accused 
civilization,  others  the  constitutional  government, 
some  the  newspapers. 

"  Themselves  are  the  only  ones  they  won't  accuse," 
said  the  journalist  in  an  undertone,  bending  toward 
Herman  ;  "  they  do  not  suspect  that,  after  all,  public 
taste  is  formed  by  what  is  given  it,  and  that  if  it 
has  degenerated  they  must  blame  themselves  alone, 
because  it  is  for  them  to  shape  and  guide  it.  You 
believe,  perhaps,  that  all  these  fine  talkers  are 
worshipers  of  art ;  but  not  one  of  them  would  be 
willing  to  be  a  Correggio  upon  condition  of  having 
to  work  and  die  as  he  did.  What  kills  art  is  that 
no  one  lives  for  it  or  with  it ;  it  is  because  all  of  us, 
whatever  we  are,  have  more  vanity  or  ambition 
than  enthusiasm  and  because  we  look  not  for  the 
beautiful,  but  for  the  useful." 

After  dinner  they  returned  to  the  saloon,  where 


222  AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

Herman's  group  was  again  examined  and  praised  ; 
but  all  regretted  that  the  young  sculptor  had  not 
chosen  a  different  subject.  Children  were  no  longer 
in  fashion  ;  there  had  been  two  or  three  successes  in 
this  field  that  forbade  the  treatment  of  the  same 
subject.  For  the  moment  public  taste  was  in  favor 
of  subjects  of  the  Middle  Ages,  and  Herman  was 
advised  to  depict  some  scene  taken  from  the  old 
ballads  of  his  country. 

"  That  surprises  you,"  remarked  the  journalist 
w4th  a  smile. 

"  It  does,  indeed,"  said  Cloffer.  ^'  I  had  thought 
that  what  gave  value  to  a  work  was  its  perfection." 

"  That  is  an  idea  of  the  Black  Forest,  my  dear 
maister  ;  we  are  more  advanced  here.  What  gives 
value  to  a  work  is  not  its  merit,  but  its  opportune- 
ness. Ten  years  ago  an  artist  made  his  reputation 
by  painting  a  little  hat  on  a  rock  the  shape  of  a 
cheese  :  the  picture  was  absurd,  but  responded  to  the 
fancy  of  the  moment,  and  we  ask  no  more." 

*'  So  it  is  not  art  one  must  study,  but  the  caprices 
of  the  public  ?" 

"  As  you  say,  maister.  Painters,  sculptors,  writers 
are  only  sellers  of  novelties ;  if  the  fashion  takes, 
their  fortune  is  made ;  if  not,  they  try  a  new 
one." 

"-  Ah,  that  is  not  what  I  had  understood,"  mur- 
mured Herman. 

And  he  returned  to  his  hotel  discouraged. 

M.  de  E-iol,  however,  was  true  to  his  promise  :  he 
introduced    the   young   German   everywhere ;    he 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  22o 

brought  him  into  contact  with  collectors  and  dealers 
who  gave  him  numerous  orders.  Herman  had 
never  been  so  rich,  but  he  paid  for  these  riches  with 
his  liberty.  He  was  told  what  subjects  he  was  to 
treat — a  programme  was  made  out  for  him.  It  was 
a  species  of  torture  as  painful  as  it  was  novel. 
Hitherto  he  had  followed  all  the  impulses  of  his 
fancy,  transferring  with  his  chisel  the  impressions  of 
the  moment,  creating,  without  knowing  it,  what  he 
felt,  what  he  saw,  and  seeking  in  his  work  only  the 
joy  of  perfect  expression  of  what  was  in  him.  Like 
the  wild  bird,  he  had  become  accustomed  to  have  the 
range  of  the  entire  heavens,  and  now  they  left  him 
onl}^  a  narrow  and  fixed  circle.  No  more  capricious 
attempts,  nothing  unexpected,  no  freedom,  and 
therefore  no  happiness.  The  inspiration  was  suc- 
ceeded by  the  sense  of  the  task,  and  for  the  first 
time  he  learned  that  distaste  could  be  found  in 
work. 

One  morning  as  Cloffer  was  engaged  in  finishing 
a  statuette  that  had  been  ordered  from  him,  the 
journalist  whom  he  had  met  at  De  Eiol's  entered 
his  room. 

Charles  Duvert  brought  the  review  in  which  the 
promised  article  had  just  appeared. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  you  will  be  pleased  with 
it,"  he  said,  "  but  it  has  made  a  sensation." 

"  I  am  anxious  to  know  what  you  can  have  found 
to  say  about  a  poor  carver  of  wood  like  me,"  an- 
swered Herman,  opening  the  paper. 

"  I  think  I  have  posed  you  pretty  well,"  observed 
Duvert. 


224  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

^'  I  cannot  understand  how." 

"  Kead." 

Cloffer  approached  the  window  and  began  to  read 
the  article.  It  was  a  fantastic  study  in  which,  under 
the  pretext  of  analyzing  the  talent  of  the  unknown 
artist,  the  writer  made  of  his  life  a  romance  full  of 
marvelous  circumstances  as  new  to  Herman  as  they 
were  to  the  public.  Charles  Duvert  noticed  the 
young  German's  astonishment. 

"  1  was  sure  of  it,  maister,"  he  cried,  laughing. 
"  There  is  a  biography  such  as  you  never  expected. 
I  have  made  of  you  a  hero  after  the  pattern  of 
Hoffmann." 

"  Indeed,"  answered  Herman,  wounded, "  I  cannot 
imagine  the  reason  for  it." 

"The  reason,  my  great  man,  is  the  folly  of  the 
world,  which  likes  fairy  tales  only.  An  artist  whose 
life  is  like  everybody's  else  would  not  pique  curios- 
ity ;  he  must  have  his  story.  If  I  were  to  make  my 
dShit  over  again,  I  should  proclaim  myself  as  a 
Gaspard  Hauser  or  an  Orinoco  savage  rather  than 
the  son  of  my  father.  You  remember  Paganini's 
success?  Yery  well ;  of  the  crowds  that  flocked  after 
him  scarcely  a  third  went  to  hear  him  ;  the  rest 
went  to  see  the  man  whose  strange  adventures  had 
filled  the  feuilletons  and  whose  genius,  it  was  said, 
was  the  result  of  a  compact  with  Satan." 

"  So  lying,"  said  Herman,  amazed,  "  is  the  first 
condition  of  glory." 

"  No,  but  of  celebrit}^  maister.  Glory  has  no  need 
of  all  this  noise,  but  goes  to  the  great  man  in  his 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  225 

obscure  corner  or  even  in  the  tomb.  She  would 
have  passed  through  your  Black  Forest  some  day, 
to-morrow  perhaps,  perhaps  in  a  hundred  years,  and 
she  would  have  written  your  name  on  her  great 
tablets ;  but  here  it  is  a  question  only  of  success 
and  of  fortune.  We  do  in  art  as  we  do  in  business, 
and  the  first  condition  for  every  tradesman  is  to 
have  a  sign  that  will  attract  the  purchaser.  You 
will  soon  see  the  effect  of  my  article." 

At  this  point  the  hotel  porter  entered,  announc- 
ing that  M.  Lorieux  wished  to  see  the  young 
sculptor. 

"  Lorieux  !"  repeated  Duvert ;  ''  what  did  I  say  ? 
He  has  read  the  paper  and  has  come  to  give  you  a 
commission." 

"  You  think  so  ?" 

"  I  am  sure  of  it.  But  depend  upon  it,  the  more 
you  ask  him  the  greater  will  be  his  faith  in  your 
talents." 

The  dealer  was  introduced.  He  had,  indeed, 
come  to  make  a  business  proposal  to  Herman,  but 
he  seemed  to  be  struck  by  the  modest  furnishings  of 
the  room  where  the  young  sculptor  worked.  He 
looked  coldly  upon  the  statuettes  that  Herman 
showed  him.     Duvert  observed  this. 

"  I  am  sorry  that  you  should  show  these  here, 
maister,"  he  said  to  Herman ;  ''  the  day  is  bad  and 
one  cannot  judge  of  the  delicacy  of  the  work.  If 
monsieur  will  come  to  the  studio " 

"Ah,  the  maister  has  a  studio?"  asked  the  dealer. 

"It  is  being  made  ready  for  him;  that  is  why 


226  AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

you  find  him  camped  in  a  hotel.  But  in  a  few 
days  he  will  have  the  finest  quarters  of  any  sculptor 
in  Paris ;  a  real  Italian  gallery  overlooking  a  gar- 
den ;  3,000  francs  rent !  Our  artists  nowadays 
live  like  grand  seigneurs.-' 

"  And  it  is  we  who  are  their  bankers,"  remarked 
the  dealer  with  a  loud  laugh. 

"  Say  their  money-lenders,  monsieur,  their  stew- 
ards. In  passing  through  your  hands  their  works 
enrich  you.  But,  excuse  me,  maister — you  know 
who  is  w^aiting  for  you ;  settle  with  monsieur 
quickly,  I  beg  of  you." 

All  this  was  said  with  such  briskness  and  assur- 
ance that  Cloffer  w^as  bewildered.  The  dealer, 
W'hose  whole  manner  had  been  altered  by  these  re- 
marks, hastened  to  make  to  Herman  proposals 
which  the  latter  accepted,  and  retired  with  great 
demonstrations  of  politeness. 

Hardly  had  he  vanished  when  Duvert  threw  him- 
self into  a  chair  with  a  shout  of  laughter. 

^'  Pour  Dieu !  what  does  this  jest  mean  and 
what  have  ^''ou  been  saying  to  him  ?"  asked  Cloffer. 

"  It  isn't  a  joke,"  answered  the  journalist,  **  be- 
cause if  you  haven't  the  studio  I  told  him  of,  you 
must  have  it." 

"What?" 

"  Didn't  you  see  the  impression  your  hotel  room 
made  upon  that  honest  tradesman  ?  Seeing  you  so 
poorly  lodged,  he  was  on  the  point  of  not  making 
you  an  offer." 

"  But  what  had  my  lodging  to  do  with  it  as  long 
as  he  saw  my  work  ?" 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  221 

"  Mo?i  Dieu  !  maister,  you  are  really  too  much 
of  a  German.  Don't  you  understand  that  to  be  able 
to  judge  of  the  work  one  must  have  more  knowl- 
edge and  taste  than  that  man  has  ?  Moreover, 
what  does  M.  Lorieux  care  for  merit  ?  What  he 
wants  is  a  sculptor  who  is  in  vogue,  whose  produc- 
tions he  can  sell  well ;  and  the  artist's  wealth  is  the 
best  proof  of  his  success.  You  still  forget,  Herman, 
that  you  are  no  longer  in  the  Black  Forest,  working 
according  to  your  fancy,  but  in  Paris,  where  you 
work  at  the  pleasure  of  others." 

"  Alas  !  you  are  right,"  said  Cloffer,  sighing. 

"  You  have  an  apprenticeship  to  serve,"  went  on 
Duvert,  "  Neither  can  3'ou  continue  to  live  in  soli- 
tude. You  must  be  seen  in  society  ;  one  evening  in 
certain  saloons  will  do  more  for  your  reputation  than 
a  masterpiece." 

"  So,"  said  Herman,  ^*  it  is  not  enough  to  have 
lost  the  right  to  follow  my  inspiration,  but  I  must 
also  give  up  the  right  to  live  according  to  my 
tastes  ?" 

"  You  must  succeed,"  answered  Duvert  \  "  it's  all 
in  that.  In  future  you  must  have  but  one  thought 
and  one  object :  make  yourself  talked  about." 

Cloffer  tried  to  follow  Duvert's  advice  and  be 
was  not  long  in  finding  out  its  correctness.  In  a 
few  months  his  reputation  increased  beyond  all  ex- 
pections,  and  the  value  of  his  works  increased  ac- 
cordingly. 

Duvert's  article  had  been  accepted  as  a  biograph- 
ical sketch  ;  the  young  German's  name  was  heard 


^28  ^N  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

on  ever}^  side  in  connection  with  the  romantic  cir- 
cumstances of  his  life  ;  he  was  pointed  out  at  first 
nights  at  the  theater ;  his  habits  and  opmions  were 
repeated  in  detail. 

Herman  let  himself  drift  on  on  this  pleasant  tide 
of  fashion,  which  lifted  him  up  without  his  having 
any  need  to  aid  himself.  All  the  instincts  of  pride 
that  had  hitherto  remained  dormant  in  his  soul 
awoke  insensibly.  The  world  talked  so  loudly  of 
his  genius  that  he  ended  by  believing  in  it  and  ac- 
cepting the  universal  admiration  as  homage  that 
was  due  to  him. 

Unfortunately,  as  always,  his  success  had  aroused 
keen  enmity.  Until  then  he  had  known  only  the 
sweetness  of  success ;  he  was  not  long  in  feeling  the 
bitterness. 

An  article  published  in  a  newspaper  unfriendly  to 
the  one  upon  which  Duvert  worked  began  the 
attack  with  an  analysis  of  Herman's  works.  The 
majority  of  those  he  had  executed  since  his  coming 
to  Paris  lacked  that  naivete  that  had  rendered  the 
first  so  priceless.  Hampered  in  his  inspiration, 
obeying  the  necessity  of  gain,  constantly  distracted 
by  the  demands  of  society,  he  had  worked  rapidly 
and  without  heart.  They  reproached  him  for  it 
with  hypocritical  regret;  they  pointed  out,  one 
after  another,  the  faults  in  these  hasty  creations, 
stigmatizing  with  the  name  of  greed  the  sentiment 
that  had  produced  them. 

These  accusations  cut  Herman  to  the  heart.  His 
enemies  doubtless  learned  this  and   renewed   their 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  229 

attacks  every  month,  every  week,  every  day.  Soon 
the  young  sculptor  could  not  cast  his  eyes  upon 
certain  sheets  without  finding  his  name  coupled 
with  some  offensive  epigram.  Ridiculous  actions 
and  speeches  were  attributed  to  him  ;  caricatures  of 
him  were  held  up  to  public  ridicule. 

Herman,  maddened  by  such  persecution,  wished 
to  avenge  himself ;  Duvert  calmly  protested  that 
this  was  one  side  of  success.  Why  should  he  be 
surprised  that  the  same  means  employed  by  his 
friends  to  make  him  famous  should  be  used  by  his 
enemies  to  make  him  ridiculous?  This  was  an 
inevitable  result  of  fame  ;  but  Herman  was  too  un- 
used to  the  custom  that  exposes  the  work  and  the 
person  of  the  artist  to  the  mercy  of  the  critics  to 
accept  any  such  conclusion.  He  felt,  moreover,  that 
there  was  at  the  bottom  of  the  raillery  that  pursued 
him  an  exaggerated  but  just  reproach.  Jealousy 
had  rendered  his  enemies  clear-sighted,  and  they 
struck  at  the  sensitive  part  of  his  conscience. 

Cloffer  struggled  for  a  long  time  in  vain  against 
the  attacks  of  the  gnats  that  tormented  him ;  in 
vain  he  tried  to  forget  the  persecution  to  which  he 
was  exposed ;  his  soul,  accustomed  to  the  peace 
that  comes  from  obscurit}^,  was  too  dee])ly  dis- 
turbed ;  he  fell  into  a  profound  melancholy,  followed 
by  a  sickness  to  which  he  nearly  succumbed.  It 
needed  all  the  skill  of  the  physicians  and  several , 
months  of  convalescence  to  bring  him  back  to  life. 
De  Riol  persuaded  him  to  take  a  trip  to  Italy, 
which  completed  his  recovery. 


230  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"When  he  returned  he  had  reo^ained  his  streno^th, 
and  the  long  idleness  to  which  he  had  been  perforce 
condemned  had  given  him  an  ardent  longing  for 
work  ;  but  when  he  presented  himself  to  the  dealers 
the  latter  scarcely  recognized  him.  There  had 
come  from  Florence  a  worker  in  terra-cotta  and  the 
fashion  had  veered  toward  that  quarter. 

Herman  went  to  see  Duvert,  whom  he  told 
of  this  change.  The  journalist  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"What  would  you  have,  maister?"  he  said. 
"  Success  is  like  fortune — you  must  seize  it  by  the 
forelock  ;  six  months  of  absence  are  enough  to 
make  a  man  forgotten.     You  were  wrong  to  go." 

"  But  my  health  required  it." 

"  A  man  who  is  the  fashion  has  no  right  to  be 
ill ;  society  is  a  melee,  and  whoever  drops  out  of  the 
ranks,  even  for  an  hour,  finds  his  place  filled  on  his 
return. 

"But  cannot  I  regain  my  position  ?" 

Duvert  shook  his  head. 

"  Your  face  and  your  name  are  known  ;  your  gift 
has  lost  its  novelty ;  you  cannot  count  in  future 
upon  that  inquisitive  interest  that  in  society  takes 
the  place  of  admiration  ;  you  are  already  spoken  of 
as  if  you  were  dead." 

"  It  is  horrible  !"  cried  Herman.  "  What !  a  year 
has  been  enough  to  deprive  me  of " 

'*  All  that  a  year  has  been  enough  to  give  you." 

"  Eut  what  is  to  become  of  me  ?" 

"  You  have  only  to  choose,  my  dear  maister  ;  you 


^JV^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  231 

can  become  a  painter,  a  poet,  or  a  comedian  ;  that 
will  be  a  transformation,  and  perhaps  public  favor 
will  return  to  you." 

Herman  made  no  reply  and  left  the  journalist. 
He  could  not  yet  believe  that  the  latter  had  not 
exa  Of  ere  rated,  but  he  soon  recoojiiized  the  truth  of  all 
he  had  said. 

After  being  accustomed  to  the  intoxication  of 
success,  he  was  forced  to  meet  again  with  the  re- 
buffs to  which  he  had  grown  unaccustomed,  accept 
all  the  pain  and  all  the  shame  of  oblivion. 

These  trials  were  too  much  for  Herman's  strength. 
He  struggled  for  a  time  ;  but  one  day,  after  a  fresh 
rebuff  even  more  palpable  than  the  rest,  he  hurried 
to  his  studio,  summoned  a  dealer,  sold  off  everything, 
paid  what  he  owed,  and  taking  the  blackthorn 
stick,  which  he  had  hung  above  his  door  as  a 
trophy : 

*' Enough  of  humiliation,"  he  murmured;  "let 
us  go  back  to  the  forest." 

He  left  Paris  by  the  same  harriere  by  which  he 
had  entered  four  years  before  ;  but,  alas  !  all  the 
hopes  that  he  had  brought  with  him  had  vanished ; 
enthusiastic,  young,  and  strong  when  he  had  come, 
he  left  despairing,  aged,  and  mortally  stricken. 

The  way  was  painful  for  him.  Enervated  by 
Parisian  life,  he  had  lost  the  habit  of  taking  long 
walks  in  the  sunshine ;  he  no  longer  felt  within  him 
that  joyous  strength  that  loves  to  expend  itself  in 
the  open  air  ;  and  more  than  once  he  was  forced  to 
halt  in  order  to  rest.  He  took  advantage  of  one  of 
these  stops  to  prepare  his  mother  for  his  return. 


23JJ  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

One  can  imagine  Dorotliee's  joy  upon  receiving 
this  letter,  which  preceded  Herman  by  only  a  few 
hours.  But  her  joy  was  soon  tempered  at  the  sight 
of  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  her  son.  She 
easily  understood  by  his  pallor  and  his  melancholy 
abstraction  that  his  plans  had  failed  and  that  his 
return  was  due  less  to  affection  than  to  despair. 
She  did  not  ask  a  single  question,  however.  As  he 
threw  himself  into  her  arms  he  had  said  : 

"  I  have  come  back  to  you,  mother,  and  I  shall 
never  leave  you  again." 

This  was  enough  ;  she  busied  herself  in  doing  all 
she  could  that  her  son  might  recover  at  her  side  the 
peace  of  mind  he  had  lost. 

Gathering  about  Herman,  with  the  ingenuity  of 
a  woman  and  a  mother,  all  that  he  had  once  loved, 
she  had  a  separate  room  furnished  for  him,  asked 
her  old  friends  to  visit  him,  and  got  the  3^oung  girls 
of  the  neighborhood  to  pass  their  evenings  at  his 
fireside.  Thus  every  day  became  2ifete  day  at 
Dorothee's  house.  But  Herman  did  not  notice  it. 
What  was  all  this  to  the  world  in  which  he  had 
moved  ?  He  compared  the  obscurity  into  which  he 
had  relapsed  to  the  brilliance  that  had  one  instant 
surrounded  him.  His  soul  had  lost  its  simplicit}^ 
at  the  same  time  that  it  had  lost  its  calm,  and,  dis- 
abused of  the  false  joys  of  the  world,  he  was  unable 
to  return  to  the  simple  joys  of  home. 

Dorothee  finally  saw  that  all  her  efforts  were  in 
vain.  Herman  grew  each  day  more  sad,  more  ail- 
ing.    His  malady  soon  made  such  progress  that  he 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAHIS.  233 

could   not   leave    the    hut.     The   poor,  frightened 
mother  hurried  in  search  of  the  doctor. 

The  latter  examined  the  joung  man  closely, 
questioned  him,  prescribed  rest,  diversion,  and  took 
his  leave.     Dorothee  hastened  after  him. 

"You  sa}'  nothing,  monsieur?"  she  faltered,  look- 
ing with  anguish  at  the  doctor. 

He  seemed  embarrassed. 

"  The  truth,  in  God's  name,"  went  on  the  dis- 
tracted mother. 

"  The  truth  V  stammered  the  physician. 

"  I  wish  to  know  it." 

"  Yery  well !     1  am  going  to  notify  the  pastor." 

Dorothee  uttered  a  cry  and  fell  upon  her  knees. 

The  following  day  the  pastor  came,  under  the 
pretext  of  ordering  some  work  from  Herman,  but 
the  young  man  smiled  sadly  .  Feeling  the  progress 
of  the  disease,  he  had  understood  what  had  brouofht 
the  pastor.  He  opened  his  heart  to  him  and  told 
him  all  that  we  have  told.  When  he  had  finished, 
the  pastor  tried  to  offer  some  consolation,  but 
Herman  interrupted  him. 

"My  malady  is  cured,  monsieur,"  he  said  with 
emotion.  "  On  the  point  of  death,  the  truth  has 
come  to  me  :  all  that  has  happened  is  just.  I  wished 
to  exchange  the  immaterial  delights  of  art  for  the 
advantages  of  fortune  and  the  vanities  of  fame ;  I 
have  sacrificed  my  affections  and  my  peace  to  an 
ambitious  delirium ;  sooner  or  later  I  had  to  suffer 
for  my  mistake.  H  it  could  only  serve  as  a  lesson  ! 
If  some  one  else  tempted  by  vain  promises  should 


234  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

wish  to  leave  our  valleys  for  the  great  cities,  tell 
him  my  story,  monsieur ;  tell  him  what  success  costs 
without  making  one  happier  or  better;  tell  him, 
lastly,  to  train  his  heart  and  mind  with  a  view  not 
to  profit,  but  to  duty  ;  for  joy  here  on  earth  is  only 
for  simple  souls." 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PABIS.  235 


THE  DESIRES. 


Antoine  Likeux,  the  tenant  of  Joncheres,  was 
standing  before  his  house,  examining  its  thatched 
roof  with  a  troubled  air. 

"There's  the  moss  showing  on  the  ridge  pole 
again,"  he  muttered.  "  The  stuff  will  be  over  every- 
thing and  the  granaries  will  be  damp  as  cellars ;  but 
the  townsfolk  think  it's  quite  good  enough  for 
peasants." 

"  Whom  do  you  mean  by  townsfolk,  my  good 
man  ?"  inquired  a  voice  behind  him. 

The  farmer  turned  abruptly  and  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  M.  Favrol,  who  had  heard  his  dis- 
contented reflections.  The  peasant  saluted  his 
landlord  with  a  somewhat  disconcerted  air. 

"  I  didn't  know  the  master  was  there,"  he  said, 
without  replying  to  his  interlocutor's  question. 

"But  you  were  thinking  of  him,  were  you  not?" 
answered  M.  Favrol,  smiling.  "  I  see  that  you  will 
always  be  the  same,  my  poor  Antoine,  seeing  noth- 
ing but  thorns  in  roses  and  nothing  but  vexations 
in  life." 

Lireux  shook  his  head. 


236  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"  It  is  easy  for  the  master  to  talk,"  he  said  dog- 
gedly;  "  he  is  rich  enough  to  do  as  he  pleases." 

"  Because  I  please  to  do  only  what  I  can,"  re- 
marked the  landlord  ;  ^'  but  to  limit  one's  desires  to 
one's  means  is  a  precept  that  was  forgotten  in  your 
catechism,  perhaps." 

"  It  would  have  been  better  not  to  have  forgotten 
to  put  a  good  income  into  my  pocket,"  answered 
the  peasant.  "Poor  people  ought  not  to  be  re- 
proached for  their  desires,  because  they  haven't  the 
means  of  satisfying  them.  It  seems  to  me  that  it 
would  not  be  too  much  to  ask  the  good  Lord  for  a 
roof  that  sheds  the  water  and  doesn't  draw  vermin 
like  this  cursed  thatch." 

"  That  is  to  say,  you  keep  constantly  returning  to 
your  old  idea  of  having  a  tile  roof  ?" 

"Yes ;  and  if  I  wasn't  so  poor  I  should  have  it 
done  at  my  own  expense,  and  I  should  make  by  it, 
seeing  that  the  house  would  be  more  healthy  and 
my  grain  better  kept." 

"But  you — would  you  be  any  better  satisfied  ?" 

"  I  wouldn't  ask  anything  more  of  the  good  Lord 
or  of  the  master." 

"  Parbleu^  we  shall  see,"  said  M.  Favrol.  "  Al- 
though I  consider  the  expenditure  unprofitable  for 
you  and  useless  for  me,  I  wish  to  find  out  if  it  is 
possible  to  satisfy  you.  You  shall  have  your  tile 
roof,  Maitre  Antoine,  and  as  soon  as  fine  weather 
sets  in  I  will  send  the  workmen." 

Lireux,  surprised  by  this  unexpected  concession, 
thanked  his  landlord  with   effusion,  and  as  soon  as 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  237 

the  latter  had  left,  he  went  into  the  house  to  tell 
the  family  of  his  good  fortune. 

Part  of  the  day  was  emploj^ed  in  considering  the 
advantages  in  this  change  of  roof.  Aside  from  the 
novel  aspect  that  it  would  give  to  the  farm-house, 
great  benefit  ought  to  be  derived  from  the  preserva- 
tion of  the  grain  ;  but  Antoine  soon  saw  that  this 
could  be  doubled  by  slightly  raising  the  walls  upon 
which  the  frame  rested.  This  discovery  completely 
changed  the  current  of  his  thoughts.  He  no  longer 
thought  of  anything  but  this  enlargement  and  of 
the  profit  that  he  would  derive  from  it.  Without 
this  modification,  the  new  roof  was  only  an  unim- 
portant change ;  things  might  just  as  well  be  left  as 
they  were! 

So  here  was  our  peasant  fallen  back  into  his  old 
dark  mood,  bitterly  deploring  the  lack  of  money 
that  constantly  balked  him  in  the  execution  of  his 
plans. 

He  was  obliged  to  go  to  M.  Favrol  in  order  to 
pay  his  rent.  The  landlord  noticed  his  troubled  air 
and  asked  the  cause.  After  hesitating  some  time, 
Lireux  admitted  his  new  preoccupation. 

"  It  is  not  a  request  that  I  make  of  the  master," 
he  went  on  ;  "  it  was  quite  enough  for  him  to  prom- 
ise to  do  away  with  the  thatch  ;  he  was  not 
obliged  to  do  it,  and  poor  people  have  a  right  only 
to  what  is  due  them." 

"  You  may  add  that  they  have  this  in  common 
with  the  rich,"  answered  M.  Favrol ;  "  but  I  see  tliat 
you  are  hard  to  cure  of  your  discontent ;  one  desire 


238  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

fulfilled  gives  birth  to  a  second.  I  mean  to  under- 
take the  cure,  however ;  we  will  raise  the  walls  of 
the  granary." 

The  farmer  declared  that  this  promise  surpassed 
all  his  hopes,  and  he  went  gayly  home. 

A  few  days  later  a  builder,  sent  by  M.  Favrol, 
came  to  examine  the  work  to  be  done.  In  the 
course  of  conversation  Antoine  asked  him  what 
they  were  going  to  do  with  the  old  roof. 

"  E'othing,  I  suppose,"  said  the  builder.  "  It  is  the 
sort  of  framework  for  country  buildings  only  and 
cannot  support  anything  but  thatch  ;  at  most  it 
could  be  used  for  a  barn." 

"The  very  thing — ours  is  too  small,"  said  the 
farmer. 

"Have  vou  room  for  a  laro^er  one?" 

"  At  the  entrance  to  the  stables ;  we  could  take  a 
little  from  the  garden.     I  will  show  you.     Come." 

The  two  went  to  look  over  the  ground,  which  the 
builder  did  not  fail  to  find  admirably  adapted  to  a 
new  building.  He  showed  Lireux  the  advantage 
there  would  be  in  putting  up  large  sheds,  in  enlarg- 
ing the  stables  a  little,  and  digging  a  pit  for  the 
manure.  Antoine  adopted  the  plan  with  enthusiasm. 
Here  was  the  means  of  completing  the  improve- 
ments undertaken,  of  giving  the  farm  a  visible 
superiority  over  all  others  in  the  neighborhood,  and 
of  making  use  of  the  old  frame  that  was  to  be  re- 
placed. Without  this  further  expenditure  the  pro- 
jected changes  would  not  have  results  propor- 
tionate to  the  cost,  and  M.  Favrol  ought,  in  his  own 
interest,  to  decide  upon  them. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  239 

Lireux  added,  however,  that  he  did  not  dare 
make  the  suggestion  himself. 

"  I  should  be  accused  ao:ain  of  never  beino:  satis- 
fied,"  he  said,  "  and  the  master  wouldn't  understand 
that  what  I  propose  is  as  much  for  the  farm  as  for 
me.  If  I  had  the  monev  I  should  have  built  with- 
out  asking  any  one,  but  poor  people  are  obliged  to 
stop  at  good  ideas." 

"  Don't  be  afraid,"  said  the  builder,  who  did  not 
understand  how  people  could  spend  money  on  any- 
thing but  building.  ^'  I  will  speak  to  the  master  and 
he  can't  help  deciding  upon  doing  it." 

Antoine  encouraged  him  eagerly  and  begged  him 
to  let  him  know  the  landlord's  answer  as  soon  as 
possible. 

Left  to  himself,  he  began  to  ruminate  upon  the 
builder's  ideas,  which  had  become  his  own,  and  to 
calculate  the  profit  he  would  derive  from  these 
changes.  Thanks  to  the  sheds,  he  could  substitute 
winter  threshing  for  summer  threshing ;  the  en- 
larging of  the  stables  would  enable  him  to  keep  a 
larger  number  of  cattle  for  market,  and  the  manure 
pit  would  utilize  the  drainage  from  the  stables. 
Plainly  these  changes,  which  he  had  not  thought  of 
before,  w^ere  indispensable  additions  ;  if  he  had  not 
asked  for  them  sooner,  it  was  owing  to  his  unwilling- 
ness to  make  complaints ;  but  M.  Favrol  could  not 
refuse  them  without  hardness  and  injustice. 

Several  days  elapsed,  however,  and  he  heard 
nothing  from  the  builder.  His  impatience  grew 
into  torture.     He  went  to  see  the  man,  who  lived 


240  ^^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

in  a  distant  village,  but  he  could  not  find  him.  He 
returned,  more  uneasy  than  ever.  To  all  appear- 
ances M.  Favrol  had  refused ;  he  could  no  longer 
count  upon  larger  outbuildings ;  he  must  go  on  put- 
ting up  with  makeshifts  and  miss  being  rich  for  the 
lack  of  a  little  money  on  his  part  or  a  little  good  will 
on  the  part  of  others. 

Lireux  had  wholly  abandoned  himself  to  these  re- 
flections, when  he  heard  his  name  called.  It  was 
the  builder,  who  had  caught  sight  of  him  from  the 
top  of  a  scaffolding,  where  he  was  superintending 
his  workmen. 

"  Well,  the  matter  is  settled,  Pere  Antoine !"  he 
cried. 

"  What  matter  ?"  asked  the  farmer,  who  dared  not 
hope. 

"  Parbleu  !     The  granar}^  and  the  stables." 

"  The  master  consents  ?" 

"  We  begin  next  month." 

"  Come  and  tell  me  about  it  over  a  glass !"  cried 
Antoine  joyfully ;  "  you  must  tell  me  how  it  all 
came  about." 

The  builder  left  the  scaffolding  and  joined  Lireux 
at  the  tavern.  Antoine  learned  that  the  owner  of 
Joncheres  had  only  laughed  without  making  any 
objections,  and  that  he  had  asked  the  builder  for  a 
detailed  estimate  of  the  changes. 

Antoine  went  home  completely  reassured.  Upon 
his  arrival  he  went  at  once  to  look  at  the  site  of  the 
new  buildings,  planning  everything  beforehand  with 
regard  to  the  greatest  convenience.  The  old  en- 
trance being  impossible  in  the  new  plan,  it  was 


AN"  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAUIS.  241 

necessary  to  make  a  passage  through  the  garden  ; 
there  was  a  hedge  to  be  cut  through  and  a  ditch  to 
be  filled  :  he  decided  that  he  would  do  it  at  his  own 
expense,  without  speaking  to  M.  Favrol.  But  this 
arrangement  cut  off  still  more  of  the  little  garden, 
already  reduced  by  the  erection  of  the  barn  ;  it 
would  be  a  loss  that  the  proprietor  of  Joncheres 
could  not  refuse  to  make  good.  An  unused  piece 
of  land  lay  on  the  further  side  of  the  road  ;  Pere 
Lireux  considered  that  he  might  claim  it  by  way  of 
compensation.  He  betook  himself  accordingly  to 
M.  Favrol,  under  the  pretext  of  wishing  to  know 
when  the  building  was  to  begin. 

"  Well,  honhomme  Lireux,"  said  the  landlord  on 
seeing  him,  "  I  hope  you  are  satisfied  ?" 

"  Poor  people  have  no  right  to  complain  as  long 
as  they  have  bread,"  answered  Antoine  with  reserve. 

"A  maximum  of  truly  Christian  resignation,"  said 
M.  Favrol ;  "  but  it  seems  to  me,  Maitre  Antoine, 
that  you  have  some  other  reasons  for  satisfaction. 
Have  I  not  granted  you  everything  you  asked,  in- 
cluding the  new  outbuildings?" 

''  I  am  much  indebted  to  the  master,"  said  the 
farmer  coldly  ;  "  but  the  master  knows  that  the 
farmer  lives  by  the  soil,  and  to  take  away  several 
furrows  is  like  taking  av/ay  a  piece  of  bread." 

"And  who  thinks  of  taking  any  away  from 
you  ?"  asked  M.  Favrol. 

"  Your  pardon,"  said  Antoine  somewhat  abashed, 
"  it  is  the  master's  barn  and  the  passage  leading  to 
it  that  take  up  a  part  of  the  garden.  I  don't 
want  to  complain ;  but  if  the  master   would  let  me 


242        ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

cultivate  the  little  strip  of  land  opposite  the  farm  it 
would  be  a  compensation." 

"  Ah,  very  good  !"  answered  M.  Favrol,  looking 
at  the  farmer.  "  I  believe  there  is  about  an  acre 
in  this  little  strip  of  land  ?" 

"  I  couldn't  say,"  answered  Lireux  with  an  inno- 
cent air.  "  I  never  measured  it ;  but  it  is  something 
for  poor  people  like  us,  while  it  is  nothing  to  the 
master." 

"  One  moment,"  said  the  landlord  ;  "let  us  count 
up,  my  good  man.  Here  is  the  estimate  of  what 
you  have  asked  of  me  ;  it  amounts  to  2,430  francs. 
Add  to  that  the  acre  of  ground  and  it  would  make 
about  3,500  francs'  worth  of  desires  gratified  in  a 
month  !  At  that  rate,  Maitre  Antoine,  it  would  take 
to  satisfy  a  *  poor  man '  like  you  some  40,000 
francs  income — that  is  to  say,  as  much  again  as 
I  receive.  Even  then  you  would  not  be  happy,  for 
ever  since  my  promise  to  roof  your  farm-house  you 
have  passed  from  one  desire  to  another,  always  as 
restless  and  complaining  as  ever.  You  see  now 
that  riches  can  do  nothing  for  the  man  who  cannot 
limit  his  desires  to  what  he  has.  The  ancients  tell 
in  one  of  their  fables  of  a  king's  sons  who  were 
condemned  in  purgatory  to  fill  a  bottomless  cask; 
this  is  exactly  what  you  are  trying  to  do,  Antoine. 
The  happiness  after  which  you  have  been  running 
in  vain  ever  since  your  childhood  is  not  to  be  found 
where  you  think ;  it  is  not  in  wealth  or  in  power, 
or  in  anything  that  surrounds  our  lives  ;  God  has 
placed  it  more  nearly  within  our  grasp ;  he  has 
placed  it  in  ourselves !" 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  243 


USELESS  THINGS. 


"  The  diligence  from  Paris !"  cried  a  waiter, 
opening  the  door  of  tlie  dining-room  of  the  Grand 
Pelican  at  Colmar. 

A  traveler  of  middle  age  who  had  just  finished 
his  breakfast  rose  quickly  at  this  announcement 
and  ran  to  the  hotel  entrance,  where  the  heavy 
coach  had  stopped. 

At  the  same  instant  a  young  man  thrust  his 
bead  out  of  the  door  of  the  coupe.  The  two 
travelers  recognized  eacb  other  and  uttered  an 
exclamation  of  deligbt. 

"  Father  !" 

"  Camille  !'' 

The  door  was  hurriedly  opened  ;  the  new  arrival 
cleared  the  step  at  a  bound  and  fell  into  the  arms 
of  the  older  man,  who  held  him  to  his  breast  for 
several  moments. 

The  father  and  son  met  for  the  first  time  after  a 
separation  of  eight  years,  which  period  the  son  had 
been  obliged  to  spend  in  London  with  an  uncle  of 
his  mother.  The  death  of  this  uncle,  whose  heir  he 
was,  left  him  at  liberty  to  return  to  his  fathers 
house,  which  he  had  left  when  almost  a  child  and  to 
which  he  now  returned  of  age. 


^44  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

After  the  first  questions  and  the  first  expressions 
of  affection,  M.  Isidor  Berton  proposed  to  Camille 
that  they  should  go  at  once  to  the  country  seat  near 
Kebeauville ;  Camilie,  anxious  to  see  once  more  the 
home  in  which  he  was  born,  assented  ;  the  cabriolet 
was  ordered  and  the  father  and  son  resumed  their 
journey. 

After  a  long  separation  there  is  often  in  first 
meetings  a  sort  of  curious  embarrassment,  and  con- 
versation is  broken  by  involuntary  silences.  Un- 
accustomed to  one  another,  each  studies  and  ob- 
serves the  other,  trying  to  discover  the  changes  that 
time  has  made  in  the  character  as  well  as  in  the 
person.  With  a  kind  of  uneasy  uncertainty,  we 
seek  the  past  in  the  present.  M.  Berton,  especially, 
was  anxious  to  know  the  vouno:  man  who  had  re- 
turned  to  him  in  the  place  of  the  child  he  had  seen 
go  away.  Like  the  physician  who  examines  a  pa- 
tient, he  questioned  him  slowly,  watched  his  every 
expression,  and  analyzed  the  least  of  his  words. 

Still  continuing  his  observations,  he  entered  into 
the  conversation  and  began  to  talk  of  his  own  tastes 
and  pursuits  since  his  son's  departure. 

The  owner  of  Eibeauville  was  neither  a  scientist 
nor  an  artist ;  but  though  powerless  to  create,  he 
loved  what  others  bad  created — like  a  mirror 
which  reflects  creation  without  itself  creating!  IN"© 
invention  was  a  matter  of  indifference  to  him,  no 
emotion  strange  to  him.  He  was  interested  in  every 
discovery,  was  present  at  every  experiment,  en- 
couraged   every    effort.      To   him  life  meant  not 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAULS.  245 

only  to  keep  alive  the  spark  that  God  has  placed  in 
each  of  us,  but  to  spread  it  and  kindle  it  by  other 
sparks.  Thanks  to  the  leisure  afforded  him  by  his 
wealth,  his  activity  had  been  able  to  develop  itself 
freely.  Not  being  bound  to  any  one  path,  he  had 
followed  all  in  the  footsteps  of  the  workers,  keeping 
up  their  courage  by  his  aid  and  by  his  sympathy. 
Alsace  had  seen  him  at  the  head  of  every  enterprise 
formed  for  the  benefit  of  letters,  science,  or  art,  and 
the  museums  of  Strasbouro:  had  been  enriched  bv 
his  gifts. 

At  this  very  moment  he  was  making  costly  exca- 
vations on  a  hillside  where  some  vestiges  of  ancient 
potteries  had  been  discovered.  He  pointed  out  the 
"  Koman  hillock"  to  his  son  in  passing,  and  told  him 
that  in  order  to  obtain  it  from  its  owner  he  had 
given  in  exchange  an  acre  of  his  best  meadow-land. 

Camille  looked  surprised. 

*'  You  think  I  have  gone  mad,  do  you  not  ?"  asked 
M.  Berton,  who  had  been  watching  him. 

"  1^0,  father,"  said  the  young  man,  "  I  was  only 
surprised  at  the  bargain." 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  I  think  one  ought  to  consider  the  use- 
ful in  everything,  and  that  this  bleak  hillside  cannot 
be  worth  an  acre  of  meadow-land." 

"  I  see  that  you  are  not  an  archaeologist." 

"  Quite  true.  I  have  never  quite  understood  what 
old  potteries  were  good  for  and  what  interest  peo- 
ple could  take  in  bygone  generations." 

M.  Berton   looked  at  his  son,  but  said  nothing. 


246         ^^  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

Anxious  to  know  him  thoroughly,  he  did  not  wish 
to  alarm  his  confidence  by  a  discussion.  There 
were  some  moments  of  silence  that  was  suddenly 
broken  by  an  exclamation  from  Camille.  He  had 
caught  sight  of  the  main  tower  of  the  manor-house 
among  the  trees. 

"  Ah,  yes,  it's  my  observatory,"  said  his  father, 
smiling ;  "  for  I  am  not  only  an  antiquarian,  my 
poor  boy,  but  an  astronomer  likewise." 

"  You,  father !" 

"  I  have  transformed  the  tower  into  a  work-room 
and  have  had  set  up  a  telescope  with  which  I  ex- 
amine what  passes  among  the  stars." 

"  And  you  find  pleasure  in  busjang  yourself  with 
things  that  are  beyond  your  reach,  that  you  cannot 
change,  and  that  bring  you  nothing  in  return  ?" 

"  It  takes  up  my  time,"  said  M.  Berton,  still 
evading  a  serious  discussion.  "  Besides,  you  will 
see  many  other  changes.  The  old  poultry-yard  has 
been  transformed  into  an  aviary  and  the  orchard  into 
a  botanical  garden." 

"  All  these  changes  must  have  cost  you  a  great 
deal" 

'•'  And  bring  me  in  nothing." 

"Then  you  condemn  them  yourself?" 

"  I  do  not  say  that  I  don't.     But  here  we  are." 

The  ofroom  ran  forward  to  take  the  reins,  and  while 
he  drove  the  cabriolet  around  to  the  stables  the  two 
travelers  entered  the  house. 

Camille  found  the  hall  incumbered  with  old  ar- 
mor, geological  specimens,  and  herbariums  filled 
with  Alsacian  flora. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  5^47 

^^  You  are  looking  for  a  rack  to  hang  your  coat 
on?"  said  M.  Berton,  seeing  him  looking  around 
with  some  disappointment ;  "it  would  be  more  use- 
ful than  my  curiosities,  truly  ;  but  let  us  go  on  to 
the  salonP 

The  salon  was  decorated  from  floor  to  ceilino^ 
with  with  paintings,  rare  engravings,  and  cabinets 
filled  with  medals.  Their  owner  asked  his  son  to 
admire  certain  collections,  but  the  latter  excused 
himself  on  the  plea  of  ignorance. 

"  True,  all  these  things  are  of  little  importance," 
said  M.  Berton  good-naturedly.  "A¥e  are  nothing 
but  big  children  who  are  amused  by  curiosities ; 
but  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  look  at  life  from  a 
practical  standpoint." 

"I  owe  it  to  Uncle  Barker,"  said  Camille  with  some- 
what theatrical  modesty;  "  he  often  used  to  complain 
of  the  time  and  money  spent  upon  the  frivolities  of 
art,  and  used  to  try  in  vain  to  discover  what  profit 
humanity  could  find  in  a  blackened  paper  or  a 
painted  canvas." 

They  were  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  a 
servant,  who  announced  dinner  and  handed  M. 
Berton  a  book  that  had  just  come  b}^  post :  it  was 
the  eagerly  expected  work  of  a  favorite  poet.  He 
began  to  glance  over  it,  but  stopped  suddenly  and 
closed  the  book. 

"  Come,"  he  said,  "  1  am  not  going  to  delay  your 
dinner  for  verses!  Uncle  Barker  would  not  have 
forgiven  me." 

"  I  am  afraid  not,"  answered  Camille,  smiling ; 
"  he  often  used  to  ask  what  poetry  was  good  for," 


248  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

The  father  and  son  seated  themselves  at  table, 
where  the  conversation  was  continued  upon  the 
same  subject.  Camille  expounded  freely  the  opinions 
that  he  owed  to  Uncle  Barker,  for  the  latter  had 
taught  him  to  be  frank,  though  the  frankness  of  the 
old  economist  came  less  from  the  love  of  truth 
than  from  the  love  of  utility.  He  respected  the 
straight  line,  not  because  it  was  straight,  but  be- 
cause he  knew  it  to  be  the  shortest.  To  him,  lying 
was  a  false  calculation,  vice  a  bad  investment, 
passion  an  exaggerated  expenditure !  In  all  things, 
utility  was  the  supreme  law.  In  consequence, 
there  was  an  indefinable  barrenness  in  even  the  good 
actions  of  the  young  man's  uncle ;  his  virtues 
seemed  no  more  than  well-worked  out  problems. 

Camille  had  adopted  his  uncle's  doctrines  with  the 
enthusiasm  with  which  youth  accepts  the  absolute. 
Gradually  bringing  everything  down  to  this  definite 
question,  ^'  Of  what  use  is  it?"  his  reasoning  (which 
he  took  for  reason)  had  reduced  all  social  duties  to 
mathematical  problems.  Cured  of  the  mental 
derangement  called  poetry,  as  he  expressed  it,  he 
had  treated  life  as  the  Jew  who  scraped  a  picture  by 
Titian  so  as  to  have  a  clean  piece  of  canvas  that 
would  be  good  for  something. 

M.  Berton  expressed  neither  anger  nor  impatience 
as  his  son  aired  his  opinions.  He  advanced  several 
objections  which  the  young  man  refuted  victori- 
ously, seemed  impressed  by  his  reasoning,  and 
when  they  separated  for  the  night  declared  that 
they  must  discuss  the  question  again. 


AN  ATTIG  PHlLOiSOPHEB  IN  PARIS.  ^49 

And  the  next  day  and  the  days  that  followed,  M. 
Berton  led  the  conversation  to  the  same  subject, 
3^ielding  more  and  more,  as  a  man  gained  over  by 
persuasion.  Camille,  become  his  father's  teacher, 
rejoiced  in  that  singular  role,  and  finding  himself 
triumphant,  redoubled  his  eloquence.  When  he 
was  obliged,  at  last,  to  make  a  visit  to  some  relatives 
who  lived  in  the  neighborhood,  he  left  M.  Berton 
completeh^  converted. 

Camille's  absence  lasted  a  week  :  this  time  had 
sufficed  to  burst  the  buds  and  cover  the  country- 
side with  flowers.  When  he  returned,  the  swallows 
were  darting  in  the  blue  heavens  with  joyous  cries ; 
the  peasant  women's  songs  rising  from  the  wash- 
houses  answered  those  of  the  herdsmen  wandering 
over  the  fallow  fields,  and  the  warm  breezes  that 
swayed  the  unripe  grain  bore  upon  every  road  the 
scent  of  hawthorne,  primrose,  and  violet. 

In  spite  of  his  systematic  indifference  to  poetry, 
Camille  could  not  altogether  escape  the  influence 
of  that  of  the  reawakening  of  nature.  AVithout 
knowing  it,  he  gave  himself  up  to  the  charm  of 
sunshine,  song,  and  perfume ;  an  involuntary  emo- 
tion seized  him,  and  he  reached  the  manor-house  in 
^  species  of  intoxication. 

He  met  his  father  in  the  middle  of  the  parterre 
that  formed  the  entrance  court.  M.  Berton  was 
surrounded  by  workmen  who  were  pulling  up 
flowers  and  cutting  down  shrubs.  Two  lilacs 
whose  perfumed  clusters  had  shaded  the  windows 
on  the  ground-floor  had  been  cut  down  to  make 
into  fire- wood. 


250  ^^  ^  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

The  young  man  could  not  restrain  a  cry  of  sur- 
prise. 

"-  Ah  !  There  you  are,"  said  M.  Berton  on  seeing 
him.  ''  Parhleii!  you  have  come  just  in  time  to 
enjoy  your  triumph  !" 

"  My  triumph !"  repeated  Camille,  who  did  not 
understand. 

"  Don't  you  see  that  I  have  become  your  disciple  ?" 
answered  the  master  of  Ribeauville.  "I  have  been 
thinking  a  great  deal  of  what  j^ou  have  said  to  me, 
onon  cher,  and  I  see  that  you  and  Uncle  Barker 
were  right.  We  must  leave  useless  things  out  of 
life.  Flowers  and  shrubs  are  in  a  garden  what 
poetry  is  in  a  library  ;  and,  as  you  \QYy  justlj^  said, 
What  is  poetry  good  for?  Unless  it  is  to  light  a 
fire  with,  like  my  lilacs.  But  come,  come,  you  shall 
see  many  other  changes.  I  have  taken  advantage 
of  your  absence  and  I  hope  you  will  be  pleased." 

So  saying,  M.  Berton  passed  his  arm  familiarly 
through  Camille's  and  led  him  into  the  manor- 
house. 

The  hall  had  been  stripped  of  the  curios  that  had 
formerly  filled  it  and  they  had  been  replaced  by 
umbrella-stands,  spittoons,  and  hat-racks.  In  the 
salon  all  the  drawings  and  paintings  had  been 
removed  and  the  bare  walls  whitewashed.  Furni- 
ture all  of  one  pattern  and  perfectly  plain  had 
taken  the  place  of  the  Louis  XIII.  chairs,  the 
Gothic  chests,  and  the  Renaissance  cabinets.  M. 
Berton  cast  a  beaming  glance  at  his  son.  - 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  you  can't  accuse  me  this  time 


'AN  A  TTIG  PEILOSOPHEU  IN  PARIS.  251 

of  sacrificing  usefulness  to  the  frivolities  of  art ;  our 
salon  has  now  nothing  but  four  white  walls  whose 
utility  no  one  can  deny.  AVe  couldn't  have  a  better 
place  for  hanging  our  guns  or  leaving  our  boots." 

Camille  attempted  to  venture  some  objections, 
but  his  father  closed  his  lips  by  reminding  him  of 
the  anathema  he  had  pronounced  against  "  black- 
ened paper  and  painted  canvases  which  had  never 
been  of  any  use  to  humanity." 

The  changes,  moreover,  had  not  been  confined  to 
the  salon  ;  the  whole  house  had  undergone  the  same 
transformation.  Everything  that  was  intended  only 
to  please  had  been  pitilessly  sacrificed.  Everything 
had  a  daily  and  definite  use;  the  pleasant  had 
everywhere  given  way  before  the  practical. 

M.  Berton,  who  displayed  this  new  order  of 
things  with  considerable  pride,  informed  Camille 
that  he  did  not  mean  to  stop  here.  The  despoiled 
parterre  was  to  be  converted  into  a  poultry-yard, 
his  botanical  garden  into  a  manure-yard.  He  had 
not  yet  decided  to  what  new  use  he  should  put  his 
observatory.  He  was  hesitating  between  a  dove- 
cote and  a  windmill. 

Camille,  stunned  by  the  exaggeration  of  the 
reform,  but  withheld  by  the  principles  he  had  him- 
self professed,  abstained  from  expressing  approval, 
being  unable  to  blame. 

Wishinof  to  extricate  himself  from  the  dilemma 
b}^  talking  of  other  things,  he  asked  if  he  had  had 
any  letters  from  England. 

"  I  believe  some  came,"  said  his  father,  "  but  as 


252  AN  ATTIG  PHILOISOPHER  IN  PARIS, 

you  have  no  interests  there  now  I  gave  orders  to 
have  them  returned." 

"  "What !"  cried  Camille.  "  I  was  expecting  news 
from  one  of  my  best  friends,  who  had  promised  to 
keep  me  informed  upon  the  Irish  question." 

"  Bah  !"  retorted  M.  Berton  indifferently  ;  "  what 
pleasure  can  you  take  in  things  that  are  beyond 
your  reach  ?  Isn't  Ireland  the  same  to  you  as  the 
stars  were  to  me  ?  Its  revolutions  profit  you  noth- 
ing, and  you  cannot  change  them." 

"  But  I  have  the  interest  of  my  sympathies."  pro- 
tested the  young  man. 

"Can  they  be  of  use  to  you  or  to  Ireland  ?"  asked 
M.  Berton  calmly.  "  Do  you  think  that  your  fore- 
sight can  have  any  influence  upon  her  destiny,  that 
your  wishes  can  be  of  any  help  to  her  ?" 

"  I  do  not  say  that." 

"  Then  the  expenditure  for  mailage  does  no  good 
to  anybody.  To  admit  this  is  to  condemn  it  your- 
self." 

Camille  bit  his  lips;  he  was  beaten  with  his  own 
weapons,  and  this  irritated  him  all  the  more.  This 
rigorous  application  of  his  doctrines  had  the  appear- 
ance of  a  punishment.  Without  attacking  the 
principle  he  began  to  criticise  in  detail  the  proposed 
or  accomplished  improvements,  but  M.  Berton  had 
anticipated  everything  and  found  an  answer  for 
every  objection.  Finally  Camille,  at  the  end  of  his 
arguments,  pretended  that  the  parterre  was  not 
suited  to  its  new  purpose  and  that  a  poultrj^-yard 
should  be  paved.     His  father  struck  his  forehead. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAPIS.  253 

^'Parhleu!  you.  are  right!"  he  cried.  "I  have 
the  very  thing  I  need  for  that — six-foot  slabs." 

"  Where  are  they  ?"  asked  the  young  man. 

"  In  the  little  chapel  cemetery ;  there  are  the 
family  tombs  that  are  no  use  to  any  one." 

"And  you  mean  to  use  them  for  paving?"  cried 
Camille. 

"  Why  not  ?  Do  you  happen  to  be  interested  in 
old  stones,  and  are  you  attached  to  bygone  genera- 
tions ?" 

"Ah,  this  is  too  much !"  cried  Camille.  "  You 
cannot  be  speaking  serioush^,  father.  You  cannot 
believe  that  instincts,  tastes,  sentiments  can  be  sub- 
jected to  the  rude  arithmetic  of  interest ;  you  cannot 
wish  that  the  human  soul  should  become  a  book  of 
double  entry  where  the  figures  alone  decide.  I 
understand  all  now  :  this  is  a  lesson." 

"  Or,  rather,  an  example,"  said  M.  Berton,  taking 
his  son's  hand.  "  I  wished  to  show  you  to  what 
Uncle  Barker's  doctrines  would  lead  and  in  what 
destitution  an  abundance  of  merely  useful  things 
would  leave  us.  Never  forget  the  holy  words  that 
you  heard  in  your  childhood  :  '  Man  does  not  live 
by  bread  alone.'  That  is  to  say,  by  what  is  neces- 
sar}^  for  his  material  existence.  He  needs,  besides, 
all  that  feeds  the  soul ;  he  needs  science,  art, 
poetry.  What  you  call  useless  things  are  precisely 
those  that  give  value  to  useful  things.  The  latter 
sustain  life,  the  former  make  it  beautiful.  AVithout 
them  the  moral  world  would  become  like  a  country 
without  verdure,  without  flowers,  and  without  birds. 


254  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

One  of  the  principal  differences  between  man  and 
the  brute  is  this  very  need  of  an  immaterial  super- 
fluity. It  proves  our  higher  aspirations,  our  leaning 
toward  the  infinite,  and  the  existence  of  that  portion 
of  ourselves  that  seeks  its  satisfaction  beyond  the 
real  world  in  the  supreme  joys  of  the  ideal." 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  255 


A  JOUKNEY  BY  DILIGENCE. 


It  was  one  of  the  last  days  of  September.  The 
rain,  after  pouring  in  torrents  all  day,  had  ceased  ; 
but  a  thick  mist  hid  the  sky,  and  although  scarcely 
four  o'clock,  night  seemed  to  have  already  fallen. 

A  heavy  diligence  was  struggling  painfully  up 
one  of  the  steep  ascents  that  separate  Belleville 
from  Lyon,  and  the  postillions  walked  on  either 
side  of  the  vehicle,  stopping  every  fifty  paces  to  let 
the  animals  take  breath.  The  passengers  themselves 
had  dismounted  at  the  guard's  invitation,  and  fol- 
lowed on  foot,  cursing  the  horses,  the  rain,  and  the 
bad  roads. 

Two  of  the  passengers  who  came  last  stopped 
suddenlv  in  a  turn  in  the  ascent.  One  was  a  man 
of  about  fifty,  with  a  smiling  and  kindly  face  ;  the 
other,  younger,  had  a  careworn  expression.  He  let 
his  eyes  wander  over  the  landscape,  half-obliter- 
ated by  the  mist,  and  said  to  his  companion  : 

''What  weather  and  what  a  year.  Cousin  Grugel ! 
The  Saone  ha  s  scarcely  settled  back  into  its  bed, 
and  now  the  valleys  will  be  flooded  again." 

"  Heaven  preserve  us  from  that,  Gontran  !"  an- 
swered man  with  the  pleasant  face  ;  "  the  Ark  of  the 


356  -^-^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

Covenant  may  appear  at  any  moment  upon  the 
flood." 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  other,  with  a  touch  of  irony. 
"  I  know  you  have  a  mania  of  hope,  Jacques." 

"  As  you  have  of  despondency,  Darvon." 

"  Am  I  not  justified  when  I  see  how  things  are 
going  in  the  world  ?  Where  do  you  see  peace, 
order,  prosperity  ?  1  hear  nothing  talked  of  but 
murders,  floods,  disease!  Whatever  is  spared  from 
the  wickedness  of  man,  the  wickedness  of  nature 
destroys ;  for  matter,  brute  itself,  seems  to  have  the 
instinct  of  destruction  ;  the  elements  are  like  kings 
— they  cannot  be  neighbors  without  making  war 
upon  one  another." 

"  That  is  one  side  of  the  picture,  cousin,  the  sad 
side,  but  there  is  another  of  which  you  never  speak. 
Your  eyes  are  always  fixed  upon  the  volcano  that 
smokes  upon  the  horizon,  and  never  look  down  upon 
the  fields  of  ripe  grain  that  sway  at  your  feet. 
There  is  happiness  in  the  world,  after  all." 

*'  I  know  nothing  about  it,"  answered  Gontran 
peevishly. 

"  But  you  yourself,  are  you  not  one  of  the  fortu- 
nate  ones  of  the  earth  ?" 

"  True,  Jacques,  and  yet,  among  all  the  blessings 
that  have  been  allotted  one,  I  have  never  found 
peace  or  contentment." 

"What  more  can  you  want?  You  are  rich, 
honored,  you  have  a  sister  who  loves  3^ou." 

"  Yes,"  answered  Gontran,  "  but  my  fortune  has 
cost  me  the  wearisome  lawsuit  that  has  called  me 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARTS.  257 

three  times  to  Ma^on  ;  my  good  reputation  has  not 
prevented  my  opponent  from  insulting  me  through, 
his  lawyer,  and  as  to  my  sister " 

"  Well  ?"  demanded  Jacques. 

^'  My  sister,  with  whom  I  have  always  lived  so 
affectionately — I  have  had  a  quarrel  with  her." 

"  It  will  be  a  short  quarrel." 

"  No.  I  am  tired  of  uselessly  trying  to  establish 
order  in  her  affairs ;  I  have  suffered  too  much  from 
her  want  of  logic  and  reason." 

"  Think  of  her  good  heart  and  you  will  forgive 
her." 

""  Oh,  I  know  you  will  always  find  some  reason 
for  my  taking  my  troubles  patiently  ;  you  have  a 
salve  for  every  mental  wound,  and  if  I  were  to  stir 
you  up  a  little  you  would  prove  to  me  that  I  am 
vrrong  to  complain  ;  that  everything  in  this  world 
is  right." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  answered  Grugel ;" there 
are  things  in  the  management  of  the  world  that 
hurt  me  as  they  do  you  ;  but  I  am  not  at  all  sure  of 
being  able  to  judge  them  rightly.  Life  is  a  great 
mystery  of  which  we  understand  so  little.  Must  I 
even  admit  to  you  ?  There  are  times  when  I  per- 
suade myself  that  God  has  not  afflicted  mankind 
with  so  many  burdens  without  intention.  Happy 
and  invulnerable  we  would  become  hardened ;  each 
would  count  upon  his  individual  strength,  would 
delight  in  his  isolation,  and  would  be  without 
sympathy  for  his  fellow-man.  AVeakness,  on  the 
contrarv,  has   forced   men    to    seek    each   other's 


258  ^^  ^  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

society,  to  help  each  other,  to  love  each  other ;  suf- 
fering has  become  a  bond ;  it  is  to  it  that  we  owe 
the  noblest  and  sweetest  sentiments :  gratitude,  de- 
votion, pity." 

"  Quite  right !'-  said  Darvon,  smiling )  "  not  being 
able  to  prove  that  everything  is  good,  you  are  going 
to  prove  to  me  that  there  is  good  in  evil." 

*' Sometimes,"  said  Grugel ;  "you  may  be  sure 
that  evil  itself  is  not  absolute.  Science  owes  rem- 
edies to  the  juice  of  poisonous  plants ;  why  cannot 
one  derive  some  benefit  from  misfortunes,  an- 
noyances, and  passions?  Believe  me,  Darvon,  there 
is  no  human  mineral  so  poor  but  that  one  can  find 
in  it  some  grains  of  gold." 

•'  Parhleu  !  I  should  like  to  know  how  much  you 
would  find  in  our  traveling  companions !"  cried 
Gontran.  "  Come,  cousin,  let  us  place  in  the  retort 
these  curious  specimens  of  the  race  which  we  claim 
to  be  the  highest  in  intelligence." 

"  It  is  certain,"  replied  Gontran,  smiling,  "  that 
fate  has  not  been  kind  to  us." 

"  ]^ever  mind,  never  mind !"  answered  Darvon, 
whose  misanthropy  made  him  malicious ;  "  let  us 
extract  the  gold  from  the  mineral,  as  you  say. 
And  to  begin  with,  how  many  grains  do  you  expect 
to  find  in  the  cattle  dealer  there  walking  ahead 
of  us  ?" 

Grugel  raised  his  head  and  saw  a  few  paces  in 
front  of  them  the  traveler  of  whom  his  cousin  had 
spoken.  He  was  a  big  man  in  a  blue  blouse,  and  he 
was  trudging  up  the  ascent  with  a  heavy  tread, 
munching  the  while  at  a  wing  of  fowl. 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHEll  IN  PARIS.  259 

"  That  is  the  seventh  meal  I  have  seen  hira  make 
since  morning,''  went  on  Darvon,  "  and  the  pockets 
of  the  coach  are  still  stuffed  with  his  provisions. 
When  he  has  eaten  he  sleeps,  then  eats,  then  goes 
to  sleep,  to  begin  over  again.  He  isn't  even  an  im- 
becile, he  is  an  eating  machine !  You  have  seen, 
him  yourself ;  impossible  to  get  an  answer  or  a  bit 
of  information  out  of  him  !" 

"  Our  friend  in  the  felt  cap  acquits  himself  better 
in  that  respect." 

''  Ah !  let  us  take  hira  and  extract  his  grain  of 
gold  !  We  have  had  him  with  us  only  since  this 
morning,  and  the  guard  has  already  sent  him  from 
the  imperial  back  to  the  passengers  in  the  coiqye, 
who  have  sent  him  to  those  inside.  He  has  been 
with  us  only  two  hours  and  he  has  told  us  his 
history  and  that  of  his  family  to  the  fifth  degree.  I 
know  that  his  name  is  Pierre  Lepre,  that  he  has 
traveled  through  the  departments  of  Saone-et- 
Loire,  Ain,  Fere,  and  the  Hhone  for  twenty  years 
selling  colonial  commodities,  and  that  he  has  been 
married  three  times.  If  one  were  only  not  obliged 
to  submit  to  his  questions,  but  he  is  as  curious  as  he 
is  voluble  and  when  he  has  finished  his  confidences 
he  expects  you  to  make  yours.  If  you  are  trying  to 
think,  he  talks  to  you  ;  if  you  talk,  he  interrupts; 
his  voice  is  like  a  rattle  always  going  and  the  noise 
ends  by  setting  your  nerves  on  edge." 

"  Poor  Lepre!"  said  Grugel ;  "  he  is  a  good  fellow 
at  bottom,  after  all." 

"  He  has  one  merit,"  went  on  Darvon,  "  which  is 


260  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS, 

of  annoying  Mademoiselle  Athenai's  de  Locherais ; 
we  were  about  to  forget  that  amiable  traveling  com- 
panion, who,  after  crying  that  w^e  must  get  out  in 
order  to  lighten  the  coach,  remained  there  alone  for 
fear  of  wetting  her  feet." 

"  You  must  forgive  her,"  remarked  Jacques ; 
"  retirement  has  accustomed  her  to  think  of  no  one 
but  herself;  her  heart  has  grown  narrow." 

"  Narrow  !"  repeated  Gontran  ;  "  you  are  mis- 
taken, cousin.  Mademoiselle  Athenai's  de  Locherais 
has  a  tremendous  love — for  herself !  The  whole 
world  was  created  for  her  particular  use  ;  she  does 
not  understand  that  anything  can  happen  in  it  that 
does  not  regard  her.  She  is  one  of  those  sweet 
creatures  who,  when  they  hear  people  shouting 
murder  in  the  street,  turn  over  on  their  pillows, 
grumbling  at  having  been  awakened." 

Grugel  was  about  to  answer,  but  they  had 
reached  the  top  of  the  hill,  the  coach  had  stopped, 
and  the  guard  called  to  the  passengers  to  remount. 
He  had  just  been  joined  by  a  mounted  messenger, 
who  announced  that  the  overflowing  of  the  Saone 
rendered  the  crossing  by  Yillefranche  impossible 
and  warned  them  to  turn  to  the  right  to  cross  the 
Niseran  higher  up  and  enter  Anse  by  a  roundabout 
way.  The  diligence  that  preceded  them  had  not 
taken  this  precaution  and  had  been  overtaken  by  the 
flood  ;  there  was  a  rumor  that  several  persons  had 
been  drowned.  This  last  report  was,  fortunately, 
not  communicated  to  the  passengers,  but  all  pro- 
tested when  they  heard  of  the  long  detour  that 
must  be  made. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  261 

"  There's  a  curse  upon  us,"  said  Gontran,  already 
exasperated  by  the  slowness  of  the  journey. 

"  I  expected  as  much,  monsieur,"  exclaimed  Pierre 
Lepre,  from  whom  the  two  postilions  had  made 
their  escape  and  who  now  fell  back  upon  his  com- 
panions. "  I  heard  on  the  way  that  the  Ardiere 
and  the  Yauzanne  had  overflowed  their  banks;  it 
even  remains  to  be  seen  whether  we  can  cross  at 
Anse,  where  we  find  the  rivers  Azergues  and 
Brevanne.  AVhat  road  are  we  to  take,  guard  ? 
Shall  we  go  by  the  forest  of  Oingt  ?  I  know  the 
maire — a  tall  thin  man,  always  smoking.  By  the 
way,  though,  aren't  we  going  to  stop  before  we 
reach  Anse  ?" 

^'  Impossible,"  answered  the  guard.  "  We're 
already  eight  hours  late." 

"  Well,  but  where  are  we  to  have  supper  ?"  cried 
the  cattle  dealer. 

"  We  shall  not  have  supper,  monsieur." 

'^I  insist  upon  having  some  bouillon,"  interrupted 
Mademoiselle  Athenais  de  Locherais  in  a  shrill 
voice,  putting  her  head  out  of  the  coach  door. 
"I  always  have  my  bouillon  at  five  o'clock.'' 

"  We  have  had  nothing  since  morning !"  protested 
all  the  passengers. 

"  Get  in,  messieurs  !"  answered  the  guard  sharply  ; 
"  an  hour's  delay  may  prevent  our  arriving  at  all. 
There's  no  joking  with  a  flood,  especially  at  night. 
I've  no  desire  to  have  my  coach  swept  away." 

'•  Swept  away  1"  cried  Mademoiselle  Athenais  ; 
"  horrible  !    We  should  have  been  warned.    Guard,  I 


262  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

demand  that  you  leave  the  valley ;  you  are  re- 
sponsible for  me,  guard  ;  I  shall  complain  to  the 
management." 

The  starting  of  the  diligence  cut  the  spinster's 
words  short  and  she  fell  back  into  her  corner  with 
a  moan. 

Jacques  Grugel  felt  called  upon  to  tell  her  that 
the  detour  they  were  making  led  them  away  from 
the  Saone  and  there  was  therefore  nothing  to  be 
feared. 

"  But  where  am  I  to  get  my  bouillon  ?"  she  asked, 
somewhat  reassured. 

"We  shall  not  stop  until  we  reach  Anse,"  an- 
swered Lepre.  "  the  guard  said  so,  and  Heaven 
knows  what  roads  w^e  shall  find !  Department 
roads,  and  that's  all  you  need  say  !  And  yet  I 
know  the  engineer.  He's  a  clever  fellow  ;  his  son 
was  married  the  same  day  as  my  eldest  daughter. 
But  we  shan't  reach  Anse  before  to-morrow." 

There  was  a  general  exclamation :  the  majority 
of  the  passengers  had  not  eaten  since  morning, 
counting  upon  the  stop  that  was  usually  made  at 
Yillefranche,  and  Gontran  with  characteristic  im- 
petuosity was  about  to  propose  that  they  should 
stop  the  coach  by  force  at  the  next  village  and  have 
supper  served  them,  when  the  cattle  dealer  cried : 

"  Supper !     I  have  one  at  your  service." 

"What!  for  every  one?"  asked  Lepre. 

"  For  every  one,  hourgeois.  I  can  offer  you  three 
courses  with  dessert  and  a  drop  of  schnich  on  top 
of  it." 


AN  A  TTia  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  RiS.  263 

So  saying,  he  drew  from  the  pockets  of  the 
coach  half  a  dozen  packages,  which  he  began  to 
open,  moistening  his  lips  the  while :  provisions  of 
all  kinds,  neatly  wrapped  up  and  tied  with  care. 

"It  will  be  a  regular  feast,"  said  Lepre,  who  had 
helped  the  cattle  dealer  in  making  an  inventory  of 
the  packages.  "  Peste !  monsieur.  Excuse  me, 
but  what  is  your  name  ?" 

"  Baruau." 

"  Pesie  !  Monsieur  Baruau,  you  live  well !" 

"  What  would  be  the  use  of  having  money  if  one 
didn't  eat  of  the  best?"  said  the  big  man  with  some 
show  of  pride.  "  For  the  rest,  messieurs  and  made- 
moiselle, you  shall  judge  of  my  cuisine." 

Gruo^el  turned  to  Gontran  with  a  sio:nificant 
look. 

"  Well,"  he  said  smilingly  and  in  an  undertone, 
"  here  are  the  grains  of  gold  that  you  were  looking 
for !" 

"  Grains  of  gold !"  repeated  Baruau,  who  did  not 
understand;  "your  pardon,  monsieur,  these  are 
truffle  sausages." 

"  The  gentlemen  mean  that  they  are  gold  to 
hungry  people,"  answered  Lepre,  laughing;  "it  is  a 
figure  of  speech,  Monsieur  Baruau.  I  have  a  son 
who  learned  about  figures  in  studying  rhetoric ;  he 
explained  the  thing  to  me.  But,  pardon — made- 
moiselle must  be  served  first." 

The  provisions  were  presented  to  Mademoiselle 
de  Locherais,  who  turned  over  every  piece,  choosing 
the  daintiest  morsels,  which  she  ate,  complaining  all 


264  ^N  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  MIS. 

the  while  of  the  privations  to  which  one  was  ex- 
posed in  traveling.  By  way  of  consolation,  Baruau 
offered  her  a  glass  of  old  cognac,  but  Mademoiselle 
de  Locherais  uttered  a  cry  of  horror. 

"  Cognac  to  me !"  she  cried  indignantly.  "  What 
do  you  take  me  for,  monsieur  ?" 

"  Perhaps  you  would  prefer  currant  wine  ?"  per- 
sisted the  cattle  dealer  innocently. 

"I  do  not  drink  either  currant  wine  or  brandy!" 
retorted  Mademoiselle  Athenais  haughtily ;  "  I 
never  drink  anything  but  water." 

And  turning  to  Grugel : 

"  Fancy  such  a  thing !"  she  murmured.  "  To  offer 
rae  brandy !  As  if  the  spices  in  what  he  has  made 
us  eat  were  not  enough  to  ruin  one's  stomach  !  I 
am  sure  I  shall  be  ill." 

As  she  said  this,  she  settled  herself  in  her  corner 
so  as  to  turn  her  back  upon  the  cattle  dealer,  took 
out  a  pillow  she  had  brought  with  her,  leaned  her 
head  against  it,  and  fell  into  a  doze. 

The  diligence  advanced  painfully  along  the  gul- 
lied roads.  The  air,  although  damp,  was  cold  and 
the  night  was  starless.  Inspired  by  the  repast 
which  Baruau's  gastronomic  precautions  had  pro- 
vided, Lepre  recovered  all  his  loquacity,  and  al- 
though his  companions  had  long  since  ceased  to  an- 
swer him,  he  went  on  talking  without  troubling 
himself  as  to  whether  any  one  were  listening  to 
him. 

The  monotonous  sound  of  his  voice,  the  slowness 
of  their  progress,  the  darkness,  the  cold,  had  filled 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAUIS.  265 

all  the  passengers  with  an  irritable  discontent  that 
expressed  itself  every  moment  by  yawns,  shivers, 
and  smothered  complaints.  Darvon,  especially 
seemed  to  be  prey  to  a  nervous  irritability  that 
increased  from  moment  to  moment.  He  had  al- 
ready pulled  up  and  drawn  down  ten  times  the  shade 
of  the  coach  door,  rested  his  head  first  to  one  side 
and  then  to  the  other,  placed  his  legs  in  every  posi- 
tion permitted  by  the  narrow  space  at  his  disposal, 
and  finally,  at  daybreak,  his  patience  was  ex- 
hausted. 

"  I  would  giv^e  ten  of  the  days  still  left  me  to 
live,  to  be  at  the  end  of  this  journey  !"  he  cried. 

"Here  we  are  at  Anse,"  answered  Grugel. 

"  Mafoi  I  That's  so  !"  cried  Lepre,  who  had  dozed 
off  for  a  moment.  "Hola!  guard,  how  long  do  we 
stay  here  ?" 

"  Five  minutes." 

"  Open  the  door !  I  shall  have  time  to  say  how 
do  you  do  to  the  maitre  de  lyosteP 

The  door  was  opened  and  Baruau  got  out  with 
Lepre  to  renew  his  stock  of  provisions.  At  the 
same  instant  the  booking  agent  approached  to  ask 
if  there  were  any  seats. 

"  Only  one,"  answered  Grugel. 

"What!"  cried  Mademoiselle  de  Locherais,  who 
had  awakened  with  a  start.  "Does  monsieur  mean 
to  put  any  one  else  in  here  ?" 

"  A  passenger  for  Lyons." 

"But  it  is  impossible!"  went  on  the  spinster; 
**we  are  already  horribl}^  crowded,  monsieur;  your 


266  ^^  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA ItlS. 

coaches  are  too  small.  1  shall  complain  to  the 
management." 

"  Doubtless  this  is  our  new  companion,"  remarked 
Gontran,  who  was  looking  out  of  the  window. 
"  Monsieur  Lepre  has  already  taken  possession  of 
him." 

"  A  soldier !"  cried  Mademoiselle  de  Locherais. 

"  A  non-commissioned  officer  of  chasseurs." 

"  Ah,  Dieu !  And  he  is  going  to  get  in  here ! 
Why  don't  they  oblige  soldiers  to  travel  on  foot  ?" 

"  It  would  be  a  cruel  and  exhaustino:  thino^  in 
such  weather,  mademoiselle." 

^'  It  is  their  business,  is  it  not  ?  Such  people  don't 
get  tired.  Public  conveyances  expose  one  to  such 
odious  company,  without  taking  into  consideration 
that  all  one's  habits  are  upset.  JSTothing  hot  to  eat ; 
to  pass  the  night  without  sleep ;  to  be  crowded, 
smothered.  I  don't  see  w^hy  one  of  these  gentle- 
men does  not  ride  outside." 

"  In  spite  of  the  mist  ?" 

"  What  does  it  matter  for  men  ?" 

"  Mademoiselle  would  certainly  be  less  crowded," 
observed  Darvon  ironically.  "  She  might  suggest 
it  to  our  new  companion." 

"  I !  speak  to  a  soldier  ?"  said  Mademoiselle 
Athenai's  proudly.  "  I  ^vould  rather  suffer,  mon- 
sieur." 

"  Here  he  is !"  interposed  Jacques. 

The  officer,  indeed,  had  made  his  appearance  at 
the  door,  followed  by  the  booking  agent,  with  whom 
he  was  disputing.     He  was  a  young   man  of  alert 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  267 

bearing,  but  his  swaggering  manner  repelled  Darvon 
at  the  first  glance.  He  was  complaining  at  the 
delay  of  the  coach  for  which  he  had  been  waiting 
since  the  previous  night,  and  was  belaboring  with 
words  the  booking  agent,  whose  answers  were 
timid  and  embarrassed.  Finally,  upon  the  guard's 
announcing  that  the  coach  was  about  to  start,  the 
young  man  approached  the  door  and  looked  in. 

"A  magnificent  assemblage!"  he  muttered:  "if 
the  coupe  and  the  rotonde  are  only  as  well  pro- 
vided!" 

And  he  got  in. 

"This  completes  our  collection  of  absurdities," 
saidGontran  in  a  low  voice,  leaning  toward  Grugel. 

"  Take  care  that  he  doesn't  hear  you,"  answered 
Jacques. 

Darvon  lifted  his  shoulders. 

"Blusterers  have  always  filled  me  with  more 
contempt  than  fear,"  he  said,  "and  this  one  needs  a 
lesson  in  politeness." 

Baruau  had  returned  without  Lepre.  The  guard 
had  sent  for  him  to  the  tavern,  and,  after  waiting 
several  minutes,  the  coach  had  started  without  him, 
to  the  great  joy  of  Mademoiselle  de  Locherais,  who 
now  hoped  that  she  would  have  more  comfort. 
But  her  joy  was  of  short  duration,  for  the  officer, 
who  had  first  seated  himself  on  the  other  seat,  sat 
down  at  her  side.  The  old  maid  drew  herself  up 
angrily  and  let  down  her  veil.  The  soldier  turned 
toward  her. 

"•Tiens  .^"  he  said  mockingly ;  "  madame  is  afraid 
of  being  looked  at,  it  seems !" 


268  ^^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"  Perhaps,  monsieur,"  said  Athenais  dryly. 

"  I  understand  her  reason,"  went  on  the  officer ; 
"  but  she  may  be  quite  easy  ;  I  will  deprive  myself 
of  the  pleasure." 

And,  seeing  Mademoiselle  de  Locherais'  start  of 
indignation : 

"  What  I  say,"  he  went  on,  "  is  in  the  interest  of 
mademoiselle's  health  and  to  enable  her  to  breathe 
with  uncovered  face,  especially  as  there  is  a  lack  of 
air  in  this  box.     The  window^  must  be  let  down." 

"  T  object,"  answered  Mademoiselle  de  Locherais 
vehemently  ;  "  my  physician  has  forbidden  me  to 
expose  myself  to  the  morning  air." 

"And  mine  has  forbidden  me  to  smother,"  re- 
torted the  3^oung  man,  reaching  out  bis  hand  to 
lower  the  glass. 

But  the  spinster  declared  that  the  window  was  on 
her  side,  that  she  had  the  right  to  keep  it  closed, 
and  she  appealed  to  the  other  passengers. 

Little  as  Darvon  was  disposed  in  favor  of  Made- 
moiselle de  Locherais,  he  thought  himself  obliged 
to  take  her  part,  and  there  followed  betvveen  him 
and  the  chasseur  a  discussion  that  would  have 
grown  violent  had  not  Grugel  relinquished  to  the 
soldier  his  own  place  by  the  other  window. 

The  officer  accepted  with  a  bad  grace,  retaining  a 
dull  irritation  against  Gontran. 

The  reader  has  already  perceived  that  the  latter's 
dominant  qualities  were  neither  patience  nor  resig- 
nation. The  mishaps  of  the  journey,  moreover, 
had  excited  his  morbid  irascibility ;  thus  the  dissen- 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  269 

sion  that  had  already  broken  out  between  him  and 
the  chasseur  was  renewed  several  times  with  in- 
increasing  bitterness,  until  a  final  incident  pre- 
cipitated it  into  an  open  quarrel. 

Darvon  had  placed  several  small  pieces  of  luggage 
in  the  net  overhead ;  the  officer  pretended  that  he 
was  inconvenienced  by  them  and  demanded  their 
removal.     Gontran  refused. 

"  You  are  determined  to  leave  them  ?"  cried  the 
soldier  after  a  discussion  in  which  he  had  grown 
more  and  more  heated. 

"  Determined,"  answered  Gontran. 

"  Yery  good  ;  I  will  rid  myself  of  them  b}^  fling- 
ing them  out  of  the  window,"  answered  the  young 
man,  reaching  up  to  the  net. 

Darvon  seized  his  hand. 

"  Take  care  what  you  do,  monsieur,"  he  said  in  an 
altered  tone.  "  Ever  since  you  joined  us  you  have 
tried  repeatedly  to  make  me  lose  patience.  You 
have  acted  as  though  3^ou  were  privileged  to  insult 
and  bully  ;  but  understand  that  I,  for  one,  am  not 
the  man  to  put  up  with  it." 

"  Is  that  a  threat  ?"  casting  a  disdainful  glance  at 
Gontran. 

"By  no  means,"  interrupted  Grugel,  alarmed  by 
the  turn  the  discussion  was  taking.  "  My  cousin  is 
only  reminding  you " 

"  I  take  no  reminders  from  peki7is,^^  interrupted 
the  soldier. 

"And  peJcms  will  not  accept  your  insolence,"  an- 
swered Gontran. 


270  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

At  the  word  insolence  the  officer  trembled;  a 
sudden  flush  spread  over  his  face. 

"  Where  do  you  stop,  monsieur  ?"  he  asked  Dar- 
von  in  a  voice  shaking  with  anger. 

"At  Lyon,"  answered  the  latter. 

"  Very  well.  We  will  finish  our  explanations 
there." 

"  Be  it  so." 

Jacques  in  dismay  tried  to  interpose,  but  his 
cousin  and  the  chasseur  cut  him  short  simultane- 
ously, repeating  that  they  would  settle  the  affair  at 
Lyon. 

Just  then  a  great  shouting  was  heard  and  a 
wagonette  covered  with  mud  appeared  in  the  dis- 
tance. Mademoiselle  de  Locherais  put  her  head  out 
of  the  door. 

"  Ah,  mon  Dieu  !  What  a  misfortune,"  she  cried. 
"  M.  Pierre  Lepre  has  overtaken  us ;  we  shall  be 
full." 

As  soon  as  he  had  reached  the  mail  coach  Lepre 
sprang  from  the  wagonette  and  presented  himself 
at  the  door,  which  the  guard  had  opened. 

"  Ah,  so  this  is  how  you  go  off  without  waiting 
for  the  passengers  !"  he  cried  furiously. 

"  I  notified  you  three  times,"  protested  the  guard. 

"  You  should  have  notified  me  six  times,  monsieur ; 
twelve  times :  you  are  miserly  of  your  words,  are 
you  ?  What  do  words  cost  ?  Perhaps  I  could  not 
leave  the  maetre  de  posts  while  he  was  telling  me  of 
the  disaster  that  overtook  yesterday's  diligence  ;  for 
you  do  not  know,  messieurs,  that  the  coach  that 
preceded  this  one  was  swept  away." 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARTS.  271 


"  Swept  away  !"  repeated  every  voice. 

"  Good,"  interrupted  the  guard,  "  but  get  in- 


"Not  at  all,  it  isn't  good  at  all,"  went  on  Pierre 
Lepre ;  "  every  one  is  in  consternation." 

"  I  beg  of  3^ou,  monsieur,  get  in  at  once." 

"  And  what  will  our  families  think  when  they 
hear  of  the  disaster?" 

"  Come,  be  quick  !" 

"  I  was  just  about  to  learn  the  details  when  they 
told  me  the  dilio^ence  had  o-one  without  me." 

"  And  we  will  do  the  same  again,"  said  the  guard 
impatiently. 

"  Par  exe?nple  .'"  cried  Lepre,  who  hurriedly  got 
in.  "I've  had  enough  of  that  wagonette;  here  I 
am,  guard,  go  ahead !" 

The  commercial  traveler  was  overwhelmed  with 
questions,  and  he  told  all  he  knew  ;  then  interrupt- 
ing himself  as  his  habit  was,  he  exclaimed  on  recog- 
nizing the  young  officer : 

"  Eh  !  it  is  monsieur  I  had  the  honor  of  meeting 
at  Anse  ?" 

"  The  same,"  answered  the  chasseur. 

"  Delighted  to  meet  you  again,"  said  Lepre. 
"  I  am  a  friend  of  all  soldiers  ;  I  should  even  have 
served  myself  if  a  substitute  had  not  been  found  for 
me." 

He  was  interrupted  by  Mademoiselle  Athenais, 
who  had  just  observed  that  he  was  wet. 

"It's  this  accursed  mist,"  he  said,  mopping  himself 
with  his  handkerchief. 

*'  But  people   should  not  get  into  a  carriage  in 


a72  AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

such  a  state,"  objected  Mademoiselle  de  Locherais 
pettishly  ;  "  when  people  are  damp,  they  should  re- 
main outside." 

"  To  get  dry  ?"  asked  Lepre,  laughing  ;  "thank  you, 
I  have  had  enough  of  it ;  then,  too,  my  coachman 
was  drunk  ;  he  almost  drove  us  into  the  river." 

"  Ah !  dialler 

"  Something  more  to  add  to  yesterday's  diligence  : 
that  is,  unless  there  had  been  some  brave  fellow  to 
fish  us  out !  Such  a  thing  did  happen  once.  Three 
years  ago,  at  the  time  of  the  great  inundation,  a 
workman,  by  his  own  efforts,  saved  five  people  who 
were  drowning  in  a  carriage,  near  La  Guillotiere." 

"We  know  about  it  even  better  than  you,"  said 
Grugel ;  "  my  cousin's  best  friend  was  one  of  them." 

"  Indeed  ?"  asked  the  chasseur. 

"  And  he  owed  his  life  to  the  bravery  of  this  young 
man." 

"  Oh,  it  was  a  noble  deed  from  beginning  to  end," 
broke  in  Darvon  warmly  ;  "  the  terrified  horse  had 
dragged  the  carriage  into  the  strongest  part  of  the 
current ;  the  crowd  looked  on  from  the  shore  with- 
out daring  to  offer  help ;  there  was  no  hope  for  the 
five  people  in  the  carriage." 

"  Bah  !"  interrupted  the  chasseur ;  "  there  were 
some  who  could  swim,  perhaps,  and  would  have 
saved  themselves." 

Gontran  did  not  deign  to  answer. 

"  The  carriage  was  beginning  to  sink,"  he  went 
on,  "  when  a  workman  appeared  in  a  little  boat 
which  he  guided  with  difficulty  to  the  middle  of  the 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS,  273 

Rhone  ;  three  times  he  was  on  the  point  of  upset- 
ting. The  people  on  the  shore  cried  :  '  Don't  go  on  ! 
Come  back,  you  will  be  drowned  !'  But  he  did  not 
listen  to  them  and  continued  to  make  his  way  to  the 
carriage,  which  he  reached  at  last  by  dint  of 
courage  and  skill." 

"  And  good  luck,"  added  the  soldier. 

"  Doubtless,"  answered  Grugel,  who  had  noticed 
Gontran's  impatient  gesture ;  "  but  only  brave  hearts 
have  luck  like  that." 

"  It  was  a  brave  deed,"  interrupted  Mademoiselle 
Athenai's  de  Locherais,  '*  and  should  have  profited 
its  author." 

*'  Excuse  me,  madame,"  said  Darvon,  "  the  work- 
man doubtless  thought  that  the  real  reward  of  our 
generous  actions  is  to  be  found  in  ourselves  ;  for,  the 
people  saved,  he  disappeared  without  waiting  to 
accept  either  money  or  thanks." 

"  Pardieii !  It  would  have  been  a  fine  thing  to 
take  pay  !"  cried  the  officer. 

"  And  his  name  is  not  known  ?"  asked  Lepre. 

"His  name  was  Louis  Duroc." 

"  Hein  !     You  say  Louis " 

"  Duroc." 

Lepre  turned  to  the  officer. 

"  Why,  it's  your  name  !"  he  cried. 

"  Monsieur's  name  ?"  echoed  all  the  passengers. 

"  Louis  Duroc,  called  VAfricain  ;  I  asked  him  at 
Anse  while  we  were  chatting  at  the  tavern,  and  I 
saw  it  on  his  valise  besides." 

"  Well,  what  then  ?'-  asked  the  chasseur,  laughing. 
"  It  is  certainly  my  name." 


2H         ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"  Is  it  possible  ?"  broke  in  Gontran  ;  "  and  you 
are " 

"  The  workman  in  question.  Yes,  messieurs ; 
there's  no  need  of  proclaiming  it,  but  there's  no 
need  of  hidmg  it,  either.  I  entered  the  service  a 
week  later  and  my  regiment  left  for  Algeria,  so 
that  the  people  in  the  carriage  and  1  have  lost  sight 
of  each  other ;  but  I  hope  to  renew  the  acquaintance 
during  my  stay  in  Lyon." 

"  I  shall  take  you  to  them  myself !"  said  Darvon 
eagerly,  holding  out  his  hand ;  "  for  I  hope  that 
we  shall  be  friends,  Monsieur  Louis." 

"  We  ?"  repeated  the  soldier,  looking  hesitatingly 
at  Gontran. 

"Ah,  forget  what  has  passed,"  answered  the 
latter  ;  "  I  am  ready,  if  need  be,  to  admit  that  I 
was  wrong." 

"No!"  interrupted  Duroc.  '^l^o^parble^t!  it  was 
I  who  was  wrong  and  I  am  sorry  for  it,  upon  my 
word  !  A  foolish  habit  of  the  regiment,  you  see  ! 
Because  we're  not  afraid  we  wish  to  proclaim  it  at 
every  turn,  but  we're  good  children  at  bottom  ;  so, 
no  malice,  monsieur." 

He  had  pressed  Gontran's  hand  cordially ;  Lepre 
pressed  the  young  soldier's  with  equal  friendliness. 

"^  la  honne  heure  P^  he  cried ;"  3^ou're  a  true 
Frenchman — and  so  is  monsieur — and  Frenchmen 
ought  always  to  agree.  Enchanted  to  have  made 
your  acquaintance,  M.  Louis  Duroc.  But  do  you 
know  that  it  is  very  fortunate  I  made  you  tell  me 
your  name — which  you  didn't  want  to  do,  by  the 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  275 

way !  If  it  hadn't  been  for  me,  we  shouldn't  have 
known  your  worth." 

"Quite  right,"  said  Grugel,  looking  at  Darvon  ; 
"if  monsieur  had  been  less  talkative,  this  explana- 
tion would  never  have  taken  place,  and  without  it 
my  cousin  would  have  been  mistaken  in  M.  Louis' 
real  character.  You  see  that  fate  seems  to  have 
taken  upon  itself  the  task  of  proving  my  theory 
correct,  and  that  all  the  honors  of  the  day  are 
mine." 

As  he  finished  speaking,  the  coach  stopped  :  they 
had  reached  their  destination. 

The  passengers  on  alighting  found  the  court-yard 
of  the  Messageries  filled  with  waiting  relations  and 
friends.  The  disaster  of  the  previous  day  was 
known  and  had  aroused  the  keenest  apprehensions. 

Just  as  Darvon  was  stepping  to  the  ground,  he 
heard  his  name  spoken  and  he  turned  :  it  was  his 
sister,  whose  anxiety  had  made  her  forget  their 
quarrel,  and  she  ran  to  meet  him  with  cries  of  joy. 

The  two  held  each  other  for  some  time  in  silence, 
their  e3'es  wet  with  tears,  and  when  they  took  each 
other  by  the  hand  and  looked  at  each  other,  they 
w^ere  reconciled. 

As  they  went  out  of  the  court-yard  of  the  Mes- 
sageries they  met  their  traveling  companions. 
Baruau  and  Lepr  saluted  them  ;  Louis  Duroc  re- 
newed his  promise  to  visit  them ;  Mademoiselle 
Athena'is  de  Locherais  alone  passed  without  rec- 
ognizing them,  wholly  occupied  in  looking  out  for 
her  luggage.     Jacques  Grugel  turned  to  Gontran. 


276  ^-^  ATTIG  PHILOISOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"  There  is  the  only  flaw  in  my  doctrine,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  spinster.  "  All  our  other  com- 
panions have  been  more  or  less  transformed  in  our 
eyes:  the  gourmand  by  procuring  us  a  supper,  the 
chatterer  by  revealing  a  useful  secret,  the  braggart 
by  giving  us  a  proof  of  generous  bravery ;  but  how 
have  we  been  benefited  by  the  cold  egoism  of 
Mademoiselle  de  Locherais?" 

"It  has  made  me  feel  the  value  of  tenderness  and 
devotion,"  answered  Gontran,  pressing  his  sister's 
arm.  "Ah!  I  shall  adopt  your  system,  cousin: 
henceforth  I  shall  believe  that  there  is  a  good  side 
to  everything  and  that  we  must  only  know  how  to 
find  the  vein  of  gold." 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  277 


THE  TREASURE. 


A  YOUNG  girl  and  an  old  man  were  seated  in  a  lit- 
tle garret,  the  more  than  modest  but  carefully  kept 
furnishings  of  which  bore  evidence  of  a  self-respect- 
ing poverty. 

Cleanliness,  neatness,  and  taste  gave  a  sort  of 
elegance  to  the  poor  interior.  Everything  was  in 
its  place  ;  the  brick  floor  was  carefully  scrubbed,  the 
faded  upholstery  spotless,  and  the  window  was  hung 
with  little  curtains  of  coarse  muslin  where  numerous 
darns  formed  a  species  of  pattern.  Some  pots  of 
cheap  flowers  adorned  the  front  of  the  half-open 
window  and  scented  the  air  with  their  perfume. 

The  sun  was  setting:  a  purple  light  brightened 
the  humble  dwelling,  touching  the  sweet  face  of 
the  young  girl  and  playing  in  the  white  hair  of  the 
old  man. 

The  latter  was  half-reclining  in  a  rush-bottomed 
arm-chair  which  loving  hands  had  garnished  with 
cushions  stufifed  with  tow  and  covered  with  old  bits 
of  printed  calico.  An  old  foot- warmer  transformed 
into  a  stool  supported  his  crippled  feet,  and  his  re- 
maining arm  rested  on  a  small  round   table  where 


278  ^^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

were  a  meerschaum  pipe  and  a  tobacco  pouch 
embroidered  in  colored  beads. 

The  roughness  of  the  old  soldier's  stern  and  fur- 
rowed face  was  softened  by  an  expression  of 
frankness.  A  gray  mustache  hid  the  half-smile 
that  parted  his  lips  as  his  glance  rested  absently 
upon  the  young  girl. 

The  latter  might  be  twenty  years  old  ;  she  was 
a  brunette  with  gentle  but  mobile  features  which 
betrayed  their  owner's  feelings  by  quick  and  sudden 
changes  of  expression.  Her  face  was  like  one  of 
those  fair  sheets  of  water  which  reveal  to  their 
very  depths  all  that  they  contain. 

She  held  a  newspaper  in  her  hand  and  was  read- 
ing aloud  to  the  invalid;  suddenly  she  interrupted 
herself  to  listen. 

"  What  is  it  ?"  asked  the  old  man. 

"Nothing,"  answ^ered  the  girl,  whose  face  be- 
trayed disappointment. 

"  You  thought  you  heard  Charles  ?"  went  on  the 
soldier. 

"  Yes,"  said  Suzanne,  flushing  slightly  ;  "  his  day's 
worl<:  must  be  over;  it  is  the  time  that  he  re- 
turns  " 

"  When  he  does  return,"  added  Yincent  in  a  tone 
of  annoyance. 

Suzanne  opened  her  lips  to  defend  her  cousin ; 
but  her  better  judgment  doubtless  made  her  change 
her  mind,  for  she  stopped  in  confusion  and  then  fell 
into  a  reverie. 

The  invalid  passed  his  remaining  hand  over  his 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  279 

mustache  and  began  to  twist  it  impatiently,  as  was 
his  usual  gesture  in  his  fits  of  discontent. 

"Our  conscript  is  making  a  bad  march,"  he  re- 
sumed at  last ;  "  he  comes  home  sullen,  he  breaks 
into  his  work  to  spend  his  time  at  the  public-houses 
and  the  fetes  de  harrieres ;  it'll  end  badly  for  him 
and  for  us." 

"Don't  say  that,  uncle,  you  will  bring  misfortune 
upon  him,"  answered  the  young  girl  tremulously. 
"  He  will  get  over  it,  I  hope.  For  some  time  my 
cousin  has  had  such  strange  ideas  !  He  takes  no  in- 
terest in  his  work." 

"  And  why  not  ?" 

"  Because,  he  says,  he  has  nothing  to  hope  from 
it.  He  thinks  that  all  effort  on  the  part  of  a  work- 
man is  useless  and  that  the  best  he  can  do  is  to  live 
from  day  to  day  without  hope  or  thought  of  the 
future." 

"  Ah,  so  that's  his  system,  is  it  ?"  replied  the  old 
man,  whose  forehead  had  darkened.  "Well,  he 
cannot  claim  the  honor  of  having  invented  it.  We 
had  reasoners  like  him  in  the  regiment,  who  got 
out  of  going  with  the  rest  under  the  pretext  that 
the  distance  was  too  great,  and  stayed  behind  in  the 
depots  while  their  companies  were  entering  Madrid, 
Eerlin,  and  Vienna.  Your  cousin  doesn't  know  that 
by  dint  of  placing  one  foot  before  the  other  even 
the  shortest  legs  can  make  the  journey  to  Rome." 

"  Ah,  if  you  could  only  make  him  understand  it !" 
cried  Suzanne  with  anxious  fervor ;  "  I  have  tried  to 
convince  him  by  reckoning  up  what  a  good  book- 


280  -^N  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

binder  like  him  could  save  ;  but  when  I  reached  the 
total  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  said  that  women 
knew  nothing  about  such  things." 

"  And  so  you  gave  up  in  despair,  poor  child," 
went  on  Yincent  with  a  tender  smile ;  "  I  see  now 
why  your  eyes  are  red  so  often." 

"  Uncle,  indeed " 

"  And  why  you  forget  to  water  your  gilliflowers 
and  why  you  don't  sing." 

"  Uncle " 

Suzanne  dropped  her  eyes  in  confusion  and  twisted 
the  corner  of  the  newspaper. 

The  old  man  laid  his  hand  upon  her  head. 

"Come,  she  doesn't  think  I  am  scolding  her,"  he 
said  with  brusque  kindness.  "Is  it  not  quite 
natural  that  you  should  take  an  interest  in  Charles, 
who  is  your  cousin  now,  and  who  some  day,  I 
hope " 

The  young  girl  made  a  gesture. 

"Well,  we  won't  say  any  more  about  that,"  said 
the  invalid,  breaking  off.  "  I  forget  that  with  you 
women  one  must  always  be  ignorant  of  what  one 
knows.  We  won't  say  anything  more  about  it,  I 
say^  and  let  us  go  back  to  that  good-for-nothing  for 
whom  you  have  a  certain  amount  of  friendship — 
that  is  the  proper  word,  isn't  it  ? — and  who  has  an 
equal  amount  for  you." 

Suzanne  shook  her  head. 

"  He  did  have,  once,"  she  said ;  "  but  for  some 
time — ah,  if  you  only  knew  how  cold  he  has  been, 
how  listless !" 


Ai^  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  281 

*^  Yes,"  answered  Yincent  thoughtfully,  "  when 
one  has  had  a  taste  of  noisy  amusements  home 
pleasures  seem  tame  ;  it's  like  unfermented  wine 
after  schnick.     Many  of  us  have  experienced  it." 

"But  they  have  been  cured,"  said  Suzanne  ;  "and 
Charles  will  be  cured,  too.  Perhaps  if  you  speak 
to  him,  uncle,  it  will  be  enough." 

The  old  man  made  a  motion  of  incredulity. 

"  Such  maladies  cannot  be  treated  with  words, 
but  with  acts,"  he  answered.  "You  cannot  make  a 
reasonable  man  in  a  moment  any  more  than  you 
can  a  good  soldier :  they  must  have  experience,  the 
test  of  fatigue,  and  the  baptism  of  the  cannon ! 
Your  cousin  lacks  the  will,  because  he  sees  no 
object.  We  must  show  him  one  that  will  give  him 
courage  ;  but  it  is  no  small  matter.     I  will  think  it 


over." 


"  This  time  it  is  really  he !"  interrupted  the  young 
girl,  who  had  recognized  upon  the  stair  her  cousin's 
hasty  footstep. 

"  Silence  in  the  ranks,  then !''  said  the  invalid. 
"Don't  let  us  appear  to  be  thinking  of  anything  in 
particular,  and  go  on  with  your  reading." 

Suzanne  obeyed,  but  the  trembling  of  her  voice 
would  have  betrayed  her  emotion  to  an  attentive 
observer.  While  her  eyes  followed  the  printed 
lines  and  her  lips  mechanically  pronounced  the 
words,  her  thoughts  were  wholly  with  her  cousin, 
who  had  opened  the  door  and  had  placed  his  cap 
upon  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

Not  wishing  to  interrupt  the  reading,  the  young 


282  AK  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  BIS. 

man  saluted  neither  his  uncle  nor  his  cousin,  and 
going  to  the  window  he  leaned  against  it  with 
folded  arms. 

Suzanne  went  on  without  understanding  what 
she  read. 

She  was  reading  that  collection  of  varied  and 
often  contradictory  bits  of  news  grouped  under  the 
general  heading  of  ^''faits  diversP  Charles,  who 
had  at  first  seemed  preoccuppied,  began  in  spite  of 
himself  to  pay  attention.  The  young  girl,  after 
reading  several  announcements  of  thefts,  fires,  and 
accidents,  reached  the  following : 

"  A  poor  peddler  of  Besangon  called  Pierre  Le- 
fevre,  wishing  to  make  a  fortune  at  an}^  cost,  con- 
ceived the  idea  of  going  to  India,  which  he  had 
heard  spoken  of  as  a  country  of  gold  and  diamonds. 
He  sold  the  little  he  possessed,  went  to  Bordeaux, 
and  took  passage  on  an  American  ship  in  the 
capacity  of  second  cook.  Eighteen  years  passed 
without  anything  being  heard  of  Pierre  Lefevre. 
His  relations  have  at  last  received  a  letter  announc- 
ing his  near  return  and  informing  them  that  the  ex- 
peddler,  after  indescribable  suffering  and  reverses  of 
fortune,  has  arrived  in  France,  blind  of  one  eye  and 
with  only  one  arm,  but  possessor  of  a  fortune  esti- 
mated at  two  millions." 

Charles,  who  had  been  listening  to  the  article 
with  increasing  attention,  could  not  restrain  an 
exclamation. 

"Two  millions!"  he  repeated  wonderingly. 

"  They  will  help  him  to  buy  a  glass  eye  and  an 
artificial  arm,"  observed  the  old  soldier  ironically. 


AN  A  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  RIS.  283 

"There's  good  fortune  for  you,"  went  on  the 
young  bookbinder,  paying  no  heed  to  his  uncle's 
renaark. 

"  Which  he  has  not  gotten  on  credit,"  added 
the  invalid. 

"Eighteen  years  of  inexpressible  suffering!"  re- 
peated Suzanne,  laying  stress  upon  the  words. 

"  What  does  it  matter  so  long  as  there  is  a  fortune 
at  the  end  of  it?"  replied  Charles  impetuously. 
"The  hard  thing  is  not  the  walking  on  a  bad  road 
nor  the  putting  up  with  bad  weather  to  reach  a 
good  shelter,  but  to  go  on  walking  without  getting 
anywhere." 

"Then  you  envy  the  peddler's  lot?"  asked  the 
young  girl,  who  had  raised  her  eyes  timidly  to  her 
cousin's.  "  You  would  give  up  your  youth,  one  of 
your  eyes,  one  of  your  hands " 

"  For  two  millions  ?"  interrupted  Charles  ;  "  most 
certainly  !  You  have  only  to  find  a  purchaser  for 
me  at  that  price,  Suzanne,  and  I'll  guarantee  you  a 
dowry  for  pin-money." 

The  young  girl  turned  away  her  head  without 
replying ;  her  heart  contracted  and  the  tears  rose  to 
her  ej^es.  Vincent  also  Avas  silent,  but  he  had 
begun  to  twist  his  mustache  again  with  a  morose 
air. 

There  was  a  long  silence  :  each  of  the  three  actors 
in  this  scene  was  following  his  or  her  train  of 
thought. 

The  sound  of  the  clock  striking  eight  roused 
Suzanne  from  her  preoccupation.  She  rose  quickly 
and  began  to  make  preparations  for  supper. 


284  ^N  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

It  was  a  short  and  depressed  meal.  Charles,  who 
had  passed  the  last  third  of  the  day  with  his  friends 
at  the  public-house,  did  not  care  to  eat,  and  Suzanne 
had  lost  her  appetite.  Vincent  alone  did  justice  to 
the  frugal  repast.  The  vicissitudes  of  war  had  ac- 
customed him  to  respect  his  stomach  in  the  midst  of 
all  emotions,  but  he  was  soon  satisfied,  and  returned 
to  his  arm-chair  by  the  window. 

After  putting  everything  to  rights,  Suzanne,  who 
felt  the  need  of  being  alone,  took  a  light,  kissed 
her  uncle,  and  retired  to  the  little  room  which  she 
occupied  overhead.  Vincent  and  the  young  book- 
binder were  left  alone. 

Charles  was  also  about  to  bid  his  uncle  good- 
night, when  the  old  soldier  made  a  sign  to  him  to 
draw  the  bolt  and  to  approach. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  he  said  grave- 

Charles,  who  foresaw  reproaches,  remained  stand- 
ing before  the  old  man,  but  the  latter  motioned 
him  to  be  seated. 

*'  Did  you  consider  w^ell  w^hat  you  said  awhile 
ago'f  he  asked,  looking  fixedly  at  his  nephew. 
"  Would  you  really  be  capable  of  a  prolonged  effort 
to  attain  to  fortune  ?" 

"  I  ?  Can  you  doubt  it,  uncle  V  asked  Charles, 
surprised  at  the  question. 

'"  So  you  would  consent  to  be  patient,  to  work 
speadily,  to  change  your  habits  ?" 

*'  If  I  were  to  gain  anything  by  it.  But  why  do 
you  ask  such  a  question  ? 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  285 

"You  shall  see,''  said  the  veteran,  opening  the 
drawer  of  a  small  cabinet  in  which  he  kept  the  old 
newspapers  lent  him  by  one  of  the  lodgers. 

He  searched  for  some  time  among  the  printed 
sheets,  took  up  one,  opened  it,  and  pointing  to  a  cer- 
tain article,  handed  it  to  Charles. 

The  young  man  read  in  a  low  tone : 

" '  Propositions  have  been  made  to  the  Spanish 
government  relative  to  a  treasure  buried  on  the 
banks  of  the  Duero  after  the  battle  of  Salamanca. 
It  would  seem  that  during  this  famous  retreat,  a 
company  which  belonged  to  the  first  division  and 
which  was  intrusted  with  the  care  of  a  number  of 
caissons,  was  separated  from  the  main  body  of  the 
army  and  hemmed  in  by  such  superior  numbers  that 
resistance  was  impossible.  The  officer  in  command, 
seeing  that  there  was  no  hope  of  forcing  their  way 
through  the  enemy's  ranks,  took  advantage  of  the 
night  to  have  the  caissons  buried  by  some  of  the 
soldiers  in  whom  he  had  the  most  confidence  ;  then, 
sure  that  no  one  could  find  them,  he  ordered  his 
little  band  to  disperse  so  that  each  could  try  separate- 
ly to  escape  though  the  enemy's  lines.  Some,  in- 
deed, succeeded  in  reaching  the  division,  but  the 
officer  and  the  men  who  knew  the  spot  where  the 
caissons  were  buried  all  perished  in  attempting  to 
escape.  It  is  said  that  these  caissons  contained  the 
army  funds,  that  is  to  say,  a  sum  of  about  three 
millions.'  " 

Charles  stopped  and  looked  at  the  veteran  with 
sparkling  eyes. 


286  ^^  ^  TTIG  PHILOSOPHEU  IN  PARIS. 

"Could  you  have  been  one  of  this  company?" 
he  cried. 

"I  was,"  answered  Yincent. 

"  You  know  of  the  existence  of  this  treasure?" 

"I  was  one  of  those  whom  the  captain  intrusted 
with  its  conceahnent,  and  the  only  one  who  escaped 
the  Spanish  bullets." 

"  Then  you  could  give  information  that  would 
aid  in  recovering  it?"  cried  Charles,  still  more 
eagerly. 

"  All  the  more  easily  since  the  captain  made  us 
take  the  line  of  two  hills  and  a  rock  as  point  of  re- 
connaissance ;  I  would  recognize  the  spot  as  easily 
as  the  place  where  the  bed  stands  in  this  room." 

Charles  sprang  up  with  a  bound. 

''  Then  your  fortune  is  made !"  he  cried  exultant- 
ly ;  "  wliy  haven't  you  spoken  ?  The  French 
government  would  have  accepted  all  your  prop- 
ositions." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Yincent ;  "  but  in  any  case,  they 
would  have  been  useless." 

"  Why  ?" 

"Because  Spain  has  refused  the  required  per- 
mission ;  see  for  ^^ourself." 

He  handed  the  young  man  a  second  paper,  which 
reported  that  the  request  relative  to  the  search  for 
the  treasure  hidden  by  the  French  in  1812  on  the 
banks  of  the  Duero  had  been  refused  by  the 
government  at  Madrid. 

"But  what  is  the  need  of  permission  ?"  argued 
Charles.    "  What  is  the  use  of  making  an  official 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  '287 

search  when  we  can  make  it  privately  and  quietly? 
Once  on  the  spot  and  the  ground  bought,  what 
would  prevent  our  digging  for  the  treasure?  Who 
would  suspect  the  discovery  ?" 

'*I  have  thought  of  that  many  times  in  these 
thirty  years,"  answered  the  soldier  ;  "  but  where  are 
we  to  find  the  sum  necessary  for  the  journey  and 
the  purchase?" 

"Couldn't  we  apply  to  those  who  are  richer  than 
we  are  and  let  them  into  the  secret  ?" 

"  But  how  to  make  them  believe  or  to  prevent 
an  abuse  of  confidence  if  they  did  believe  ?  And 
what  if  we  should  not  be  successful  ?  Or  if  it  should 
turn  out,  as  in  the  fable  you  were  reading  to  your 
cousin  the  other  day,  that  in  the  moment  of  shar- 
ing the  lion  kept  the  entire  booty?  AYe  should 
then  have  to  face  the  annoyance  of  a  lawsuit  besides 
the  fatigue  of  the  journey  and  the  uncertainty  of 
success.  What  is  the  use  ?  Is  it  worth  so  much 
trouble,  considering  the  little  time  I  have  to  live  ? 
To  the  devil  with  the  millions  that  we  must  go  in 
search  of  !  I  have  a  pension  of  200  francs ;  thanks 
to  the  little  one,  it's  enough  for  the  daily  rations 
and  for  tobacco ;  I  snap  my  fingers  at  the  rest  as  I 
would  at  a  company  of  Cossacks  !" 

"  So  you  mean  to  let  this  chance  escape  ?"  went 
on  Charles  with  feverish  animation ;  '  you  refuse 
these  riches  ?" 

'  For  myself,  certainly,"  answered  the  old  man  ; 
"  but  for  you,  it  is  another  matter.  I  have  seen 
that  you   are   ambitious,   that   nothing   would   be 


288  ^N  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

easier  for  you  than  to  pass  into  the  society  of 
millionaires.  Yery  well;  get  together  the  sum 
necessary  for  our  journey  and  I  will  go  with  you.'' 

"  You  ?     Is  it  possible." 

"  Make  2,000  francs  and  I  will  give  you  a  fortune  ; 
is  it  agreed  ?" 

"  Agreed,  uncle  !"  cried  Charles  exultantly.  Then, 
collecting  himself,  he  added  in  dismay  :  "  But  how 
am  I  to  get  so  much  money  ?     I  can  never  do  it." 

"  Work  with  zeal  and  bring  me  your  week's  pay 
regularly  !    I  promise  you  that  you  will  succeed." 

''Remember,  uncle,  a  journeyman  bookbinder's 
savings  amount  to  very  little." 

*'  That  is  my  affair." 

"  How  many  years  will  it  take  ?" 

"  You  offered  to  give  eighteen  awhile  ago,  with 
an  eye  and  an  arm  thrown  in." 

"  Ah,  if  I  were  only  sure  !" 

"  Of  gaining  a  treasure  ?  I  swear  it  upon  the 
ashes  of  the  Little  Corporal." 

This  was  the  veteran's  most  sacred  oath ; 
Charles  could  not  but  regard  the  matter  as  serious. 
Yincent  encouraged  him  afresh,  repeating  that  he 
held  his  fortune  in  his  own  hands,  and  the  vouns: 
man  went  to  bed  resolved  to  make  every  effort. 

But  his  uncle's  confidences  had  aroused  within 
him  such  magnificent  hopes  that  he  was  unable  to 
sleep.  He  passed  the  night  in  a  sort  of  fever,  re- 
volving in  his  mind  the  most  rapid  means  of  earning 
the  necessary  sum,  deciding  upon  the  disposition  of 
his  future  riches,  and  rehearsing  one  after  another, 


AN"  ATTIC  PHFLOSOPHER  IN  PARIS,  289 

as  realities,  all  the  chimerical  plans  of  which  he  had 
hitherto  delighted  to  dream. 

When  Suzanne  came  down  the  foUowino^  morninof, 
he  had  already  gone  to  his  work. 

Yincent,  who  saw  the  young  girl's  astonishment 
shook  his  head  with  a  smile  but  said  nothing  ;  he 
had  enjoined  the  young  man  to  keep  the  secret  and 
meant  to  keep  it  himself.  It  remained  to  be  seen, 
moreover,  how  much  persistence  Charles  would  show 
in  his  new  resolutions. 

The  first  months  were  the  most  tryinof.  The 
young  bookbinder  had  acquired  habits  which  he 
strove  in  vain  to  break  ;  continued  work  was  in- 
supportable to  him.  It  was  necessar}^  to  renounce 
that  capriciousness  which  had  alone  regulated  his 
actions,  overcome  fatigue  and  disgust,  resist  the  im- 
portunities of  his  former  boon  companions.  It  was 
a  difficult  task  at  first.  Many  times  he  lost  courage  ; 
he  was  on  the  point  of  relapsing  into  his  old  wild 
ways,  but  the  importance  of  the  object  in  view  re- 
inspired  him.  In  bringing  to  the  old  soldier  the 
wages  that  increased  from  week  to  week,  he  always 
felt  a  redoubled  hope  which  restored  his  courage ;  it 
was  a  very  small  step  toward  his  goal,  but  still  it 
was  a  step. 

Each  day,  moreover,  the  effort  grew  easier.  Man 
is  a  vessel  whose  sails  are  passions.  Abandoned  to 
the  winds  of  the  world,  borne  along  by  every  cur- 
rent it  will  dash  ahead  against  every  rock  ;  but 
ballasted  with  good  sense,  the  navigation  will  be 
less  dangerous,   and   when   the  anchor  of  habit  is 


290  ^N  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

finally  dropped  in  the  destined  port,  there  will  be 
nothing  more  to  fear. 

Thus  it  proved  with  the  young  apprentice.  As 
his  life  became  more  regular  his  tastes  took  a  new 
direction.  Close  application  to  work  during  the 
entire  day  made  his  leisure  at  night  more  pleasant ; 
the  abandoning  of  noisy  company  lent  an  entirely 
new  charm  to  that  of  his  uncle  and  cousin.  The 
latter  had  recovered  all  her  friendliness.  Occupied 
solely  with  Vincent  and  Charles,  she  succeeded  in 
transforming  every  evening  into  difete.  Each  day 
there  was  some  fresh  surprise,  some  sweet  attention 
that  strengthened  the  bonds  of  affection  by  added 
ties  of  tenderness  and  joy.  Charles  was  astonished 
to  find  in  his  cousin  qualities  and  charms  that  he 
had  never  taken  time  to  notice.  She  grew  insensi- 
bly more  necessary  to  him.  Without  his  knowing 
it,  the  object  of  his  life  was  changed  ;  the  hope  of 
the  treasure  promised  by  Vincent  was  not  his  only 
incentive  ;  in  every  action  he  thought  of  Suzanne  ; 
he  wished  to  deserve  her  approbation,  to  become 
more  dear  to  her.  The  human  soul  is  a  sort  of 
moral  daguerreotype:  surround  it  with  pictures  of 
order,  devotion,  courage,  illuminate  it  with  the  sun 
of  tenderness,  and  each  image  will  become  detached 
of  itself  and  remain  indelibly  imprinted.  The  life 
that  Charles  led  gradually  extinguished  his  ardent 
ambitions;  he  saw  a  more  simple  happiness  nearer 
at  hand  :  his  paradise  was  no  longer  an  enchanted 
land  of  the  Arabian  Kights,  but  a  little  place  peopled 
with  affections  that  he  could  encircle  with  his  two 
arms. 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  291 

All  this  came  about,  however,  without  his  ex- 
plaining it  to  himself,  without  his  paying  heed  to 
it.  The  young  bookbinder  let  himself  drift  along 
the  current  of  his  nature  without  seeking  to  study 
each  wave  that  carried  him  either  backward  or  for- 
ward. His  transformation,  visible  to  those  who 
lived  with  him,  had  remained  a  secret  to  him  :  he 
did  not  know  that  he  was  changed,  he  only  felt 
that  he  was  happier,  more  content.  The  only  new 
element  that  he  noticed  in  his  feelings  was  his  love 
for  Suzanne.  She  entered  into  all  his  plans  and  he 
could  not  imagine  life  without  her. 

This  element  of  happiness,  brought  into  his 
future,  had  modified  all  the  others.  The  millions, 
instead  of  being  the  principal  object,  were  nothing 
more  than  the  means  ;  he  looked  upon  them  as  an 
important  addition,  but  accessory  to  his  hopes ;  he 
wished  to  know,  moreover,  with  certainty  whether 
his  love  was  returned. 

He  was  pacing  the  little  garret  one  evening  while 
Yincent  and  Suzanne  chatted  at  the  fireside.  The}^ 
were  talking  about  Charles'  first  master,  who  after 
thirty  years  of  an  honest  and  laborious  life  had 
placed  on  sale  his  bookbinder's  stock  before  retiring 
to  the  country  with  his  wife. 

"  There  is  a  couple  who  knew  how  to  make  their 
paradise  upon  earth,"  said  the  old  soldier;  "always 
agreed,  always  good-tempered,  always  at  work  !" 

"Yes,"  answered  Suzanne  with  conviction;  "the 
richest  might  envy  their  lot !" 

Charles,  who  was  passing  near  the  young  girl, 
stopped  abruptly. 


292  A^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

"Then  you  want  your  husband  to  love  you, 
Suzanne  ?"  he  asked,  looking  at  her. 

"  Of  course — if  I  can,"  answered  the  young  girl, 
smiling  and  flushing  a  little. 

"  You  can,"  answered  Charles  more  eagerely, 
"  and  you  have  only  to  say  one  word !" 

"What  word,  cousin?"  faltered  Suzanne  with 
increased  agitation. 

"  That  you  will  be  my  wife,"  answered  the  young 
bookbinder. 

And  as  he  saw  his  cousin's  start  of  surprise  and 
confusion : 

"  Don't  be  troubled,  Suzanne,"  he  went  on  with 
respectful  tenderness;  "I  have  been  wanting  to  ask 
you  this  question  for  a  long  time.  I  have  kept 
waiting  and  waiting  for  a  reason  that  my  uncle 
knows :  but,  you  see,  it  came  out  in  spite  of  me  ! 
And  now,  be  frank  as  I  am ;  don't  hide  anything 
that  you  feel ;  uncle  is  here  to  hear  us  and  will  re- 
prove us  if  we  say  anything  wrong." 

The  young  man  had  approached  his  cousin  and 
held  one  of  her  hands  clasped  in  his ;  his  voice  was 
trembling,  his  eyes  were  moist.  Suzanne,  quivering 
with  joy,  stood  with  drooping  head,  and  the  old 
soldier  watched  them  both  with  a  smile  half-tender, 
half-bantering. 

At  last  he  pushed  the  young  girl  gently  toward 
Charles : 

"  Come,  speak,  you  sly  little  puss  !"  he  said  gayly. 

"  Suzanne,  a  word,  only  one  word,  I  implore  you!" 
went  on  the  young  man,  who  continued  to  hold  his 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  293 

cousin's  hand:  "  will  you  have  me  for  your  hus- 
band ?" 

With  an  inarticulate  "yes,"  she  hid  her  face  up- 
on the  young  apprentice's  shoulder. 

"  Eh  !"  cried  Vincent,  slapping  his  knees,  "  it  was 
hard  work  to  get  it  out.  Your  hands — give  me 
your  hands  and  kiss  me.  I  will  leave  you  this 
evening  for  your  confidences;  to-morrow^  we  will 
talk  business." 

The  next  day  he  took  his  nephew  aside  and  in- 
formed him  that  the  sum  necessary  for  their 
journey  was  complete  and  that  they  could  start  for 
Spain  W'henever  they  chose. 

This  news,  \vhich  should  have  delighted  Charles, 
gave  him  a  painfu)  shock.  He  must  leave  Suzanne 
just  as  they  w^ere  beginning  to  exchange  their  first 
vows  of  love ;  run  all  the  risks  of  a  journey,  long, 
difficult,  uncertain,  when  it  would  have  been  so 
sweet  to  remain.  The  young  man  almost  cursed 
the  millions  that  he  must  go  so  far  to  seek.  Since 
the  great  object  of  his  life  had  been  changed,  his 
desire  for  riches  had  been  singularly  diminished. 
What  w^as  the  need  in  future  of  so  much  money 
wherewith  to  purchase  happiness?  He  had  found 
it! 

He  said  nothing  to  his  uncle,  however,  and  de- 
clared himself  ready. 

The  old  soldier  took  charge  of  the  preparations  ; 
for  this  purpose  he  w^ent  out  several  days  in  suc- 
cession, accompanied  by  Suzanne  ;  at  last  he  an- 
nounced that  there  was  nothing  left  to  be  done  but 


294         AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

engage  their  places.  As  the  young  girl  was  absent, 
he  asked  Charles  to  go  with  him,  and  as  the  fatigues 
of  the  last  few  days  had  rendered  his  wounds  pain- 
ful, he  got  into  a  cab  with  his  nephew. 

Yincent  had  been  careful  to  procure  the  news- 
papers that  had  spoken  of  the  famous  treasure  on 
the  banks  of  the  Duero ;  when  he  was  alone  with 
Charles  he  handed  them  to  him,  asking  him  to  see 
if  they  did  not  contain  some  information  that  might 
be  of  use  to  them. 

The  young  man  reread  the  details  that  were  al- 
ready familiar  to  him,  then  the  announcement  of 
the  refusal  of  the  Spanish  government,  finally  the 
account  of  several  fruitless  searches  undertaken  by 
Barcelona  merchants.  He  thought  the  reports  at 
an  end  when  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  letter  signed  by 
one  Pierre  Dufour. 

a  Pierre  Dufour !"  repeated  Yincent.  "  It  was  the 
name  of  the  quartermaster  of  the  regiment !" 

"  Yes,  that  is  his  rank,"  answered  Charles. 

"  God  help  me  !  I  thought  the  good  fellow  in  the 
other  world !  Let  us  hear  what  he  has  to  say  ;  he 
was  in  the  captain's  confidence." 

Instead  of  replying,  Charles  uttered  a  cry.  He 
had  glanced  over  the  letter  and  his  face  had 
changed. 

"  Well,  what  is  the  matter  ?"  quietly  aslced  Yin- 
cent. 

"The  matter?"  repeated  the  young  man.  "The 
matter  is  that  if  what  this  Dufour  says  is  true  our 
journey  is  useless." 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  295 

"  Why  ?" 

"  Because  the  caissons  were  not  filled  with  money, 
but  with  powder!" 

Yincent  looked  at  his  nephew  and  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. 

"Ah  !  it  was  powder  !"  he  cried;  "  then  that  was 
why  they  took  cartridges  out  before  burying  the 
caissons !" 

"  You  knew  it  ?"  interrupted  Charles. 

"  I  saw^  it !"  answered  the  old  man  genially. 

"But  you  have  deceived  me!"  cried  the 
bookbinder;  "you  did  not  believe  in  the  existence 
of  the  buried  millions,  and  your  promise  was  a 
farce !" 

"It  was  the  truth,"  answered  the  soldier  gravely. 
"  I  promised  you  a  treasure  ;  you  shall  have  it,  only 
w^e  are  not  going  to  Spain  for  it." 

"  What  do  you  mean  f 

"  You  shall  see.'.' 

The  cab  had  stopped  before  a  shop  ;  the  two  got 
out  and  entered.  Charles  recognized  his  old 
master's  shop,  but  repaired,  repainted  and  fitted  with 
all  the  necessary  furnishings.  He  was  about  to  ask 
an  explanation,  when  his  glance  fell  upon  the  pro- 
prietor's name  printed  in  gold  letters  above  the 
counter.  It  was  his  own  name !  At  the  same 
moment  the  door  of  the  back  shop  opened  ;  he  saw 
a  fire  blazing  merrily  on  the  hearth,  a  table  ready 
spread,  and  Suzanne,  who  smilingly  made  a  sign  for 
him  to  enter. 

Yincent  leaned  toward  him,  and  grasping  his  arm 
said: 


296  ^^  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PAPIS. 

"  Here  is  the  treasure  I  promised  you :  a  good 
business  tliat  will  enable  you  to  live  and  a  good 
wife  who  will  make  you  happy.  All  that  you  see 
here  has  been  earned  by  you  and  belongs  to  you. 
Don't  be  unhappy  if  I  have  deceived  you ;  you 
would  not  drhik  happiness,  so  I  did  as  nurses  do, 
who,  when  their  charges  refuse  to  drink,  rub  the 
cup  with  honey.  Now  that  you  know  where  hap- 
piness is  and  have  tasted  it,  I  hope  that  you  will 
not  refuse  it." 


AN  ATTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  297 


THE   OLD  PORTRAITS. 


1  WAS  still  young  then  and,  wholly  absorbed  in 
the  engrossing  interests  of  the  present,  I  had  noth- 
ing but  contempt  for  the  past.  Proud,  as  all  of  my 
ao^e,  of  a  streno^th  that  life  had  not  yet  tested,  I 
had  no  fear  of  anything ;  I  was  well  content  to  have 
been  born  in  ray  time ;  I  admired  myself  in  my 
contemporaries.  Whenever  I  looked  backward  I 
saw  nothing  but  prejudice,  superstition,  servility; 
my  generation  seemed,  indeed,  to  begin  history  and, 
like  Atlas,  to  bear  the  world  upon  its  shoulders. 

Hence  my  superb  disdain  for  all  that  was  not  of 
my  time.  I  ridiculed  bygone  fashions ;  old  customs 
made  me  shrug  my  shoulders.  I  fled  before  gray 
hairs.  Orphan  from  the  cradle,  almost,  I  had 
grown  up  among  companions  of  my  own  age, 
without  relations  and  without  friends  whose  affec- 
tion could  reconcile  me  to  old  age :  it  displeased 
me  equally  in  persons  and  in  things ;  when  it  did 
not  make  me  laugh  it  filled  me  with  repulsion. 

My  life  was  gay  although  arduous.  Drawn  into 
the  feverish  activity  of  modern  society,  I  took 
pleasure  in  putting  myself  to  the  test.  I  was  like  a 
young   swimmer  who  loves   to  battle   against   the 


298  ^^  ^  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

waves  ;  but  at  times  weariness  overcame  me  and  I 
would  have  wished  for  a  quiet  spot  on  the  shore  in 
which  to  rest,  for  a  ray  of  sunlight  to  warm  me. 
Shut  in  by  the  limits  of  a  narrow  mediocrity,  I 
would  have  longed  for  those  wings  of  gold  that 
overcome  all  space;  obliged  to  think  of  myself 
above  all  in  order  to  live,  I  would  have  wished  for 
the  leisure  to  think  of  serving  others. 

An  unexpected  event  roused  me  from  my  labors 
and  from  ray  dreams.  I  was  notified  of  the  death 
of  a  country  cousin  of  \vhom  1  had  never  heard  and 
who  had  left  me  a  legacy.  The  notary  declared 
my  presence  indispensable  in  the  settling  of  the 
estate,  and  I  decided  to  take  the  Bourgogne  dili- 
gence that  would  carry  me  to  the  village  formerly 
the  home  of  my  cousin. 

The  journey  passed  pleasantly  enough.  A  fine 
autumn  sun  brightened  the  landscape,  the  trees 
were  crowned  with  their  last  leaves,  and  on  every 
side  could  be  heard  the  bells  of  the  teams  that  were 
carrying  in  the  harvests  or  the  songs  of  the 
peasants  who  were  guiding  the  plow.  On  the 
whole,  I  was  by  no  means  ill  pleased  with  the 
province  until  my  arrival  at  .  Here,  how- 
ever, I  was  told  that  I  must  leave  the  diligence  and 
proceed  on  foot  to  the  village  where  I  was  expected. 
There  were  two  leagues  to  be  traversed,  over  cross- 
roads that  had  been  gullied  by  the  preceding  rains ! 
The  daylight  was  beginning  to  fade,  and  a  cold 
October  mist  was  already  creeping  up  from  the 
valley.     I  set  out  on  my  way  in  a  sufiiciently  bad 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  299 

humor,  cursing  the  country  where  there  are  no 
cabs  to  be  had  and  stumbling  as  best  I  could  along 
the  ruts. 

Unfortunately  the  directions  given  me  at  the 
post-house  were  insufficient ;  all  the  roads  through 
the  vineyards  looked  alike  to  me ;  I  lost  my  way 
several  times,  and  it  was  dark  when  I  reached  the 
village.  I  was  obliged  to  go  from  door  to  door  to 
find  my  cousin's  house,  and  when  I  reached  it  I 
found  no  one  there ! 

A  passer-by  informed  me  that  Dame  Felicite  (the 
housekeeper)  was  praying  at  the  church.  I  had  to 
await  her  return  and  pace  up  and  down  outside  the 
court-yard,  my  hands  in  my  pockets  and  my  nose 
buried  in  the  collar  of  my  overcoat. 

This  sentr}^  duty  before  the  door  of  my  own 
house  would  have  been  pleasant  had  it  not  been  for 
my  fatigue  and  the  mist  that  had  turned  imper- 
ceptibly into  a  fine  rain.  My  patience  had  come  to 
an  end,  when  there  appeared  an  old  servant,  half- 
hoiirgeoise  in  appearance,  whom  I  recognized  by  her 
prayer-book. 

At  the  sight  of  a  stranger  standing  at  the  door 
she  stopped  and  asked  me  what  I  wanted. 

"Madame  Felicite,"  I  answered,  shaking  with 
cold. 

''  You  mean  mademoiselle,"  answered  the  old 
woman  in  a  sour  tone ;  "  1  am  she.  What  does 
monsieur  want?" 

"  First  of  all,  that  you  open  this  door  !"  I  cried  ; 
"and  then  that  you  provide  me  with  the  means  of 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS. 


drying  myself!"  And  to  forestall  any  further 
objections,  I  gave  my  name. 

I  had  expected  that  on  hearing  my  name  the 
old  housekeeper  would  break  into  apologies ;  but 
S'he  looked  at  me  with  a  sort  of  defiant  hostility. 

"  Ah  !  It  is  monsieur  who  inherits,"  she  answered 
slow^ly.     "  Then  I  will  go  and  inform  the  notary." 

"  Au  diable  P^  I  interrupted  impatiently;  "the 
first  thing  is  to  get  under  cover  ;  let  us  go  in,  Dame 
Felicite." 

"  Your  pardon,  monsieur.  I  have  been  put  in 
charge  of  the  house,"  she  answered  resolutely.  "  I 
mean  to  put  my  responsibility  under  cover  first. 
Monsieur  may  stay  here ;  Maitre  Boisseau  himself 
shall  decide  what  I  am  to  do." 

And  without  awaiting  my  reply,  she  turned  on 
her  heel  and  disappeared  into  a  narrow  lane. 

I  returned  to  my  sentry  duty  before  my  inherit- 
ance. At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  Felicite  reap- 
peared with  a  little  man  in  spectacles,  who  intro- 
duced himself  as  Maitre  Boisseau,  and  to  him  I 
handed  the  letter  he  had  written  me  and  the  papers 
that  testified  to  my  identity.  After  inspecting  them 
by  the  light  of  a  lantern,  he  was  good  enough  to 
recognize  that  I  was  the  "  person  in  question,"  and 
gave  orders  that  I  be  admitted. 

During  these  formalities  I  had  been  tapping  my 
foot  impatiently  against  the  doorstep  and  cursing 
the  village  tahellions."^     When  the  door  was  opened 

*  A  scrivener  or  notary,  A  functionary  that  existed  in 
France  during  the  old  monarchy. 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPnER  IN  PARIS.  301 

at  last,  I  told  M.  Boisseau  curtly  that  I  would  go  to 
his  house  on  the  following  day  to  arrange  matters, 
and  I  plunged  into  the  dark  passage  without  asking 
him  to  follow. 

The  old  servant  soon  appeared  with  her  lantern 
and  escorted  me  to  an  ancient  salon  furnished  with 
an  arm-chair  and  four  straw-bottomed  chairs,  and 
for  only  ornament,  two  plaster  casts  of  Paul  and 
Virginia  standing  on  the  chimney-piece  between 
four  marble  colocynths. 

The  difficulty  I  had  had  in  obtaining  recognition, 
added  to  the  walk  and  the  mist,  had  put  me  in  a  bad 
humor.  I  made  no  attempt  to  hide  it,  and  curtly 
ordered  the  housekeeper  to  make  a  fire  and  prepare 
supper  while  I  took  a  survey  of  the  rest  of  the 
house. 

Arming  myself  with  an  old  tarnished  candle- 
stick, I  started  on  a  tour  of  ni}^  deceased  cousin's 
home. 

Everything  was  in  keeping  with  the  salon  in 
which  I  had  been  received.  The  discolored  hang- 
ings were  spotted  ;  here  and  there  newer  pieces  gave 
them  the  look  of  patched-up  rags  ;  the  furniture,  old- 
fashioned  in  form  and  of  rude  workmanship,  imper- 
fectly furnished  the  closed  rooms ;  care,  comfort, 
elegance,  all  were  lacking  in  these  old  apartments. 
I  saw  in  them  an  eloquent  testimony  to  the  barbar- 
ism of  our  ancestors  and  a  fresh  proof  that  good 
sense  and  good  taste  had  indeed  begun  only  with 
our  generation. 

The  bedroom  was  especially  curious.     The  bier- 


302  A^  -4  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  m  PABIS. 

like  bed  was  inclosed  by  four  moth-eaten  green 
serge  curtains  ;  on  a  table,  the  drawer  of  which  was 
missing,  was  a  cracked  water-jug  and  a  basin  of  dif- 
ferent color  ;  lastly,  along  the  wall  hung  some  old 
family  portraits  calculated  to  make  a  connoisseur 
shudder.  Painted  at  different  epochs,  they  repre- 
sented personages  of  various  professions ;  among 
them  I  noticed  an  ecclesiastic,  a  merchant,  a  judge, 
an  officer,  and,  lastly,  a  big  man  hsiU-hourgreois, 
half-peasant,  who,  Dame  Felicite  informed  me,  was 
her  late  master. 

The  honest  housekeeper  had  rejoined  me  to  tell 
me  that  my  supper  was  ready  ;  I  followed  her  to 
the  salon. 

I  was  struck  by  the  appearance  of  the  table.  The 
linen,  taken  from  a  reserve  store  to  do  me  honor, 
was  crossed  with  yellow  streaks;  the  earthenware 
plates  seemed  to  be  illustrated  with  dirty  arabesques 
which  bore  witness  to  the  use  of  knives  and  forks ; 
the  stemless  glasses  were  not  unlike  the  cups  of  our 
old  argand  lamps ;  lastly,  two  infirm  salt-cellars 
offered  to  the  guest  by  way  of  seasoning  kitchen 
salt  and  coarse  pepper. 

Dame  Felicite  served  me  a  thin  soup  in  which 
the  butter  had  been  forgotten,  and  the  remains  of  a 
setting  hen  to  whom  maternal  solicitude  had  left 
nothing  but  skin  and  bones.  The  housekeeper  in- 
formed me  that  this  was  her  departed  master's 
usual  supper,  but,  in  a  spirit  of  hospitalit3%  she  had 
added  three  potatoes  on  a  fair  way  to  decomposi- 
tion and  a  morsel  of  cheese  covered  with  a  greenish 
mold. 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPUER  IN  PA  JUS.  303 

I  asked  for  wine ;  it  was  a  sour,  muddy  liquid 
made  from  the  refuse  vintage. 

More  than  ever  disgusted  with  my  j.ourney,  I 
made  up  my  ra«ind  to  go  to  bed.  The  old  servant 
lighted  me  to  the  sleeping-room.  The  big  funereal 
bed,  the  smoky  old  portraits  were  ev^en  more  dis- 
agreeable to  me  than  at  first.  I  turned  abruptly 
to  my  conductress  and  asked  if  there  was  an 
auctioneer  in . 

"  An  auctioneer  ?"  she  repeated;  "  we  don't  know 
any  such  thing  here." 

"  Then  you  never  have  public  sales  ?" 

"Oh,  yes." 

''  How  do  you  manage,  then  ?" 

"  The  beadle  announces  the  sale  at  all  the  public 
places  in  the  commune." 

"Very  well.  Notify  the  beadle  to-morrow  to  an- 
nounce the  sale  of  everything  here." 

"  Everything  ?     Monsieur  keeps  nothing  ?" 

"  :N'othing." 

"  Not  even  the  pictures  ?" 

"  Not  even  the  pictures." 

"  Ah,  monsieur,  you  cannot  think  of  it ;  they  are 
family  portraits." 

"I  tell  you  I  shall  sell  everything.     Good-night." 

And  I  took  the  candle  from  F6licite,  who  went 
out  with  hands  upraised  to  heaven. 

What  would  she  have  me  do  with  these  daubs? 
Yes,  I  will  sell  you,  you  absurd  caricatures,  if  it 
were  only  out  of  hatred  for  the  times  you  repre- 
sent.    This  melancholy  room  is  yours;  these  habits 


304  ^^  ^  TTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  MM 

of  inelegance  and  parsimon}^  are  those  that  you 
have  bequeathed ;  this  life,  robbed  of  all  the  charm 
of  our  modern  civilization,  is  your  life  perpetuated 
by  tradition  !  Away  from  here,  barbarians !  We 
are  not  of  the  same  race— there  is  nothing  in  com- 
mon between  us. 

Talking  thus  to  myself,  I  had  gotten  into  bed  ; 
but  exhaustion  and  ill  humor  drove  sleep  slwslj.  I 
took  up  the  volume  of  history  that  I  had  brought 
to  distract  me  on  the  journey,  then  the  inventory 
of  my  inheritance  which  the  notary  had  submitted 
to  me. 

Here  a  surprise  more  agreeable  than  the  others 
awaited  me.  The  sum  total  rose  to  a  figure  that  I 
was  far  from  anticipating  and  that  made  me  almost 
rich.  This  unexpected  discovery  singularly  di- 
minished my  vexation  and  began  to  render  easier 
the  digestion  of  my  bad  supper.  I  set  about  ex- 
amining the  inventory  in  detail,  until  tho  figures 
began  to  dance  before  my  eyes ;  finally  I  lost  con- 
sciousness of  my  surroundings. 

It  soon  seemed  to  me  that  I  heard  the  sound  of 
footsteps  at  my  bedside.  I  opened  my  eyes  again 
and  saw  a  dozen  figures  grouped  about  my  couch. 
All  wore  ancient  and  diverse  costumes,  in  which  I 
recognized  in  surprise  those  of  the  old  portraits  that 
adorned  the  bedroom.  I  glanced  at  the  wall  to  com- 
pare them.  The  frames  alone  were  hanging  there ! 
Some  miracle  had  infused  the  old  family  portraits 
with  life  ! 

At  their  head  was  an  old  man  whom  I  had  not 


AN  ATTIC  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PARIS.  305 

noticed  among  the  collection.  My  eyes  rested  upon 
him  with  a  curiosity  that  he  appeared  to  under- 
stand. 

"  You  will  look  in  vain  for  my  portrait  among 
these  pictures,"  he  said  ;  "  in  my  time  no  brush 
would  have  taken  the  trouble  to  reproduce  the  fea- 
tures of  a  common  serf  such  as  I.  But  I  appreciated 
the  miseries  of  my  condition  and  by  dint  of  work 
I  succeeded  in  purchasing  my  freedom.  It  is  thanks 
to  this  that  one  of  my  descendants,  whom  you  see 
here,  was  enabled  to  teach  himself  and  become  a 
priest." 

The  tigure  indicated  approached. 

"  The  poor  and  the  oppressed  had  need  of  succor," 
he  said  gently.  "  In  the  name  of  Christ  I  have 
striven  to  serve  them.  I  have  helped  to  teach  the 
people,  to  make  them  love  the  good,  to  fortify  them 
by  probity,  hope,  patience,  while  my  family  rose 
slowly  in  my  shadow  and  took  its  place  among  the 
honest  merchants  of  the  province." 

A  third  speaker  here  raised  his  voice. 

"  This  position,  handed  down  by  our  fathers,  I 
have  made  greater,"  he  said  with  some  importance . 
•'  [N^amed  syndic  of  my  corporation,  I  obtained  new 
privileges  for  it ;  we  joined  together  to  defend  the 
fruits  of  labor  against  violence,  and  I  was  one  of  the 
founders  of  that  hourgeoisie  which  united  public  in- 
terests under  the  name  of  coinmunesP 

"And  I,"  went  on  his  neighbor,  who  from  his 
dress  and  bearing  was  plainly  a  magistrate,  "  I  have 
contributed  toward  making  law  prevail  over  caprice 


306  -4iV  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHER  IN  PA  HIS. 

and  equity  over  influence.  The  most  powerful  have 
had  to  submit  to  the  decisions  of  unarmed  judges; 
force  has  bowed  before  justice/' 

"And  has  become  its  auxiliary  1"  added  an  oflBcer 
with  bronzed  skin.  "  The  descendants  of  the 
former  serf  have  ended  b}^  buckling  on  the  sword 
and  by  becoming  the  defenders  of  the  country  and 
of  the  law  !  Since  both  have  belonged  to  the  entire 
nation,  the  entire  nation  has  spilled  its  blood  to 
defend  them ;  in  becoming  soldiers  we  have  all 
become  gentlemen !" 

"  Yes,"  w^ent  on  another,  in  whom  I  recognized 
my  cousin,  "  my  ancestors  had  won  justice  and 
liberty  for  their  descendants.  There  remained  for 
them  to  procure  riches.  I  have  accepted  this  role 
of  ant.  Thanks  to  my  labors  and  to  my  savings,  I 
have  enlarged  the  estate.  I  shall  leave  behind  me 
six  times  more  than  I  received,  and,  thanks  to  the 
defiant  probity  of  Dame  Felicite,  all  will  reach  my 
heir  intact.  I  shall  have  thus  insured  him  leisure  to 
cultivate  his  mind,  liberty  to  do  good  ;  finally,  the 
happiness  of  not  having  to  think  of  himself  alone, 
but  of  being  able  to  devote  his  life  to  others.  If  he 
is  w^orthy  of  such  a  privilege  he  will  know  how  to 
profit  by  it.  He  will  retain  at  the  bottom  of  his 
heart  some  little  gratitude  for  the  man  who  has 
prepared  this  noble  task  for  him;  instead  of  ridi- 
culing him  he  will  know  how^  to  sanctify  what  his 
old  cousin  has  refrained  from  spending  upon  him- 
self by  spending  it  generously  upon  others." 


AN  A  TTIG  PHILOSOPHEU  IN  PARIS.  307 

These  last  words  were  spoken  so  earnestly  and 
with  so  much  feeling  that  I  trembled  in  snite  of 
myself,  and — I  awoke! 

The  light  was  going  out,  the  old  portraits  were 
in  their  places,  the  inventory  and  the  history  had 
slipped  to  the  foot  of  the  bed  :  my  vision  had  been 
nothing  but  a  dream  ! 

A  dream,  or  rather  the  voice  of  conscience  and 
of  good  sense.  These  old  portraits  were  indeed  the 
symbols  of  the  past ;  each  one  of  them  reminded 
me  of  services  rendered  by  an  epoch  and  by  a  class. 
They  marked  the  steps  of  time  along  the  path  of 
progress.  For  whosoever  knew  how  to  understand 
them,  there  was  here  a  glorification  of  the  work 
accomplished  by  our  ancestors. 

Filled  with  a  sudden  light,  I  stretched  out  my 
hand  to  the  half-obliterated  canvases  as  though  they 
could  hear  and  see  me. 

"Ah,  forgive  me !"  I  cried;  "  forgive  me,  old 
soldiers  of  the  ages !  I  understand  now  the  re- 
spect that  is  due  you.  All  the  harvests  gathered  to- 
day in  which  I  took  such  pride  were  sown  by  your 
hands;  the  present  is  only  the  consequence  of  the 
past  and  tradition  the  instrument  of  progress. 
Foro:ive  me,  vou  who  knew  the  tree  of  knowledge 
when  it  was  onl}^  young,  but  have  watered  it  with 
your  sweat  and  with  your  blood.  I  understand 
now  that  my  pride  was  ingratitude,  and  hence- 
forth I  will  reserve  for  you  a  sacred  place  in  my 
memory." 


a08  ^N  ATTIG  PHILOISOPHER  IN  PARIS. 

And  you,  too,  vestiges  of  a  time  that  we  do  not 
understand,  rusticities  of  our  fathers,  long-forgotten 
customs,  you  shall  no  longer  excite  my  mockery  or 
my  anger,  for  I  shall  know  that  you  are  the  still 
visible  ruins  of  a  civilization  that  has  fulfilled  its' 
purpose. 


THE  END. 


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Cast    Up    by    the    Sea.      By    Sir 

Samuel   Baker. 
Caxtons,    The.      By   Bulwer-Lyt- 

ton. 
Chandos.      By   "Ouida." 
Charles   Auchester.      By   E.    BeP" 

ger. 
Character.     By  Samuel  Smiles. 
Charles    O'Malley.       By    Charlea 

Lever. 
Children  of  the  Abbey.     By  Re- 

gina  Maria  Roche. 
Children  of  Gibeon.     By  Walter 

Besant. 
Child's  History  of  England.    By 

Cliarles  Dickens. 


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Blackmore. 
Cloister    and     the    Hearth.       By 

Charles   Reade. 
Complete     Angler.       By    Walton 

and  Cotton. 
Confessions   of  an  Opium  Eater. 

B5    Thomas  De  Quincey. 
Consuelo.      By   George   Sand. 
Corinne.      By  Madame  De  Stael. 
Countt'ss     Gisela,     The.       By    E 

Marlitt. 
Couniess      of      Rudolstadt.        By 

George    Sand. 
Count   Robert   of   Paris.      By   Sir 

Walter  Scott. 
Cousin     Pons.       By     Honore     De 

Balzac. 
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Blackmore. 
Cranford.      By  Mrs.    Gaskell. 
Cripps    the    Carrier.      By    ix.    B. 

Blackmore. 
Crown   of   Wild   Olive,    The.      By 

John   Ruskin. 
Daniel      Deronda.        By      George 

Eliot. 
Data     of     Ethics.       By     Herbert 

Spencer. 
Daughter    of    an    Empress,    The 

By   Louisa   Muhlbach. 
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William  Black. 
David    Copperrleld.     By    Charles 

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Aguilar. 
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Deerslayer,      The.        By      James 

Fenimore   Cooper. 
Descent    ^f     Man.       By    Charles 

Darwin. 
^^^|S,.,?and;    or,     A    Captain    at 

Fifteen.      By  Ju' js   Verne. 
Discourses  of   EpicT/-tus.      Trans- 

lated  by  Georg*^.  Long 
Divme    Comedy,    Tr:e.       (Dante.) 
Translated     by     Rev.     H      F 
Carey. 
Dombey     &     Son.       By     Charles 

Dickens. 
Donal    Grant.      By   George   Mac- 

donald. 
Donovan.     By  Edna  Lyall 
Do\-e    in    the    Eagle's    Nest.      By 

Charlotte    M.     Yonge 
Dream  Life.      By  Ik   Marvel. 
,'Duty.      By  Samuel   Smiles. 
;Karly  Days  of  Christianity.      By 

F.    W.    Farrar. 
East     Lynne.       By     Mrs.     Henry 

Wood. 
Education      By  Herbert  Spencer. 
Egoist     The.      By    George    Mere- 
dith. 
Egyptian      Princess,      An.        Bv 

George  Ebers. 
Ei^rht   Hundred    Leagues   on    the 
Amaaon.     By  Jules   Venset 


Emerson's  Essays.  (Complete.) 
By    Ralph   Waldo   Emerson. 

Emperor.   The.   By  George  Ebers, 

Essays  of  Elia.  By  Charles 
Lamb. 

Esther.     By  Rosa  N.   Carey. 

Executor,  The.  By  Mrs.  Alex, 
ander. 

Fair    Maid     of     Perth.       By    SU 

Walter  Scott. 
Fairy     Land      of      Science.       Bl 

Arabella   B.    Buckley. 
Far    from    the    Madding    Crowd. 

By  Thomas  Hardy. 
Faust.      (Goethe.)     Translated  by 

Anna  Swanwick. 
Felix  Holt.      By   George   Eliot 
titteen    Decisive    Battles    of    the 

TT'i,       xT^^-   .?J  ^-    S.    Creasy. 
File    No.     113.       By    Emile    Ga- 

borlau. 
Firm     of     Girdlestone.       By     A. 

Ccnan  Doyle. 
First     Principles.        By     Herberr 

Spencer. 
First^ Violin.     By  Jessie  Fother^ 

^"^^xr-^i^'^^T.^"*^     Freedom.       By 
Walter  Besant.  ' 

te  "f  cot^t  ^'^^^'    ^^  ^^^  ^^^" 

^'""T^nXfi  °^  ^'^^^"ce-     By  JohE 

Frederick    "the     Great     and     His 

p^rpn^J^'"*^'!,  ^y  Louisa  Muhlbach, 

French     Revolution.       By     Thos 

Cai'iyle.  ' 

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thaniel  Hawthorne. 
Crreat    Expectations.      By    Chaa. 

Dickens, 
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""' Hopptr^^"'     ^       By    Mar, 

^""^Mv  ^n^°?f  •     ^^^^  Tales   for 

My     Children.        By     Charles 

Kingsley. 
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D.   P.   Thompson. 
Grimm's    Household    Tales.      Bv 

the  Brothers  Grimm. 
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slTtL     ^'■^^^^^-       By    Dean 
^"  Sc^t^"""^""^'     ^^  ®'^  Walter 

S!""^^  ^r"*^^-     By  ^Samuel  Lover 
^^^j^y^  Norseman,    A.      By   SdS 

Harold.     By  Bulwer-L^ttoa. 


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M.    Yonge. 
Henry     Esmond.       By    Wm.     M. 

Thackeray. 
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Alexander.. 
Herlot's     Choice.       By    Rosa    N. 

Carey. 
Heroes    and    Hero   Worship.      By 

Thomas  Carlyle. 
History   of   a   Crime.      By   Victor 

Hugo. 
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rope.     By   Guizot. 
Holy  Roman  Empire.     By  James 

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Homo  Sum.      By   George   Ebers. 
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Victor  Hugo. 
Hypatia.     By  Charles  Kingsley. 
Idle  Thoughts  of  an  Idle  Fellow. 

By   Jerome   K.    Jerome. 
Iliad,    The.      Pope's  Translation. 
Initials,    The.      By    the    Baroness 

Tautphoeus. 
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E.    Marlitt. 
In   the    Golden    Days.      By   Edna 

Lyall. 
In     the     Schillingscourt.      By    E. 

Marlitt. 
It   Is   Never   Too   Late   to   Mend. 

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Ivanhoe.     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Jack's   Courtship.      By   W.    Clark 

Russell. 
Jack  Hinton.     By  Charles  Lever. 
Jane        Eyre.  By        Charlotte 

Bronte. 
John     Halifax,     Gentleman.       By 

Miss  Mulock. 
Joshua.      By   George   Ebers. 
Kenilworth.  By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Kidnapped.     Bv  R.  L.   Stevenson. 
Kit  and  Kitty.     By  R.  D.  Black- 
more. 
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ergill. 

Knickerbocker's   History   of   New 

York.    By  Washington   Irving. 

Knight  Errant.     By  Edna  Lyall. 

Koran,       The.        Translated      by 

George  Sale. 
Jjamplighter,   The.     By  Maria  S, 

Cummins, 
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Marlitt. 
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wer-Lytton. 
Liast  of  the  Barons.     By  Bulwer- 

Lytton. 
Last  of  the  Mohicans.     By  James 

Fenimore    Cooper. 
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Holmes. 


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Farrar. 
Light  of  Asia,  The.     By  Sir  Ed- 
win Arnold. 
Light     That     Failed,     The.       By 

Rudyard    Kipling. 
Little  Dorrit.      By  Charles  Dick- 
ens. 
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andre  Dumas. 
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By    Charles    Reade. 
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Carey. 

Lucile.     By  Owen   Meredith. 

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more. 

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Oliphant. 

Makers     of     Venice.        By     Mra 
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Martin   Chuzzlewit.      By   Charles 
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Mary  Anerley.     By   R.   D.  Black- 
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Mary    St.     John.       By    i^osa    N. 
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Masternian    Ready.      By    Captain 
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Meditations   of   Marcus   Aurelius. 
Trans' ated  by   George   Long. 

Merle's    Crusade.      By    Rosa    N. 
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Micah     Clarke.       By     A.     Conan 
Doyle. 

Michael      Strogoff.        By      Jules 
Verne. 

Middlemarch.      By   George   EUol. 

Midshipman    Easy.      By    Captain 
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Mill    on    the    Floss.      By    Georg* 
Eliot. 

Milton's  Poems.     By    John    Mil- 
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Mine   Own   People.      By  Rudyard 
Kipling. 

Molly    Bawn.      By     "The     Duch- 

GSS. ' ' 

Monastery,   The.     By  Sir  Walter 

Scott. 
Moonstone,       The.        By      Wllkle 

Collins. 
Mosses   from  an   Old   Manse.     By 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 
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Jules  Verne. 
Natural     Law     in     the     Spiritual 

World.       By     Henry     Drum 

mond. 


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No  Name.     By  Wilkie  Collins. 
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Old    Mam'selle's    Secret.      By   E. 

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Old    Mortality.      By    Sir    Walter 

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Oliver       Twist.         By       Charles 

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Only   the   Governess.       By     Rosa 

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Origin    of    Species.      By    Charles 

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Our  Mutual  Friend.     By  Charles 

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more  Ccoper. 
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Balzac. 
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Rudya'  d  Kipling. 
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more  Cooper. 
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Scott. 
Plain  Tales   from  the  Hills.     By 
Rudyard  Kipling. 
,    Prairie,    The.      By    James    I' eni- 
more  Cooper. 
Pride    and    Prejudice.      By    Jane 

Austen. 
Prime    Minister,     The.       By    An- 
thony Trollope. 
Prince    of    the    House    of    David. 
By  Rev.  J    H.   Ingrahara. 


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Bronte. 
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Curtis. 
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Quentin  Durward.      By  Sir  Wal- 
ter Scott. 
Redgauntlet.        By      Sir     Walter 

Scott. 
Red  Rover.     By  James  Fenimor* 

Cooper. 
Reign     of    Law.       By     Duke    of 

Argyle. 
Reveries   of   a  Bachelor.     By  Ik 

Marvel. 
Rhoda      Fleming.        By      George 

Meredith. 
Rienzi.      By    Bulwer-Lytton. 
Robert     Ord's     Atosement.        By 

Rosa  N.   Carey. 
Robinson      Crusoe.        By     Daniel 

Defoe. 
Rob  Roy.     By  Sir  Walter  Scott. 
Romance    of    Two    Worlds.      By 

Marie  Corelli. 
Romola.     By  George  Eliot. 
Rory  O'More.     By  Samuel  Lover. 
Saint  Michael.     By  E.   Werner. 
Schonberg-Cotta      Family.         By 

Mrs.     Andrew    Charles. 
Sartor     Resartus.       By     Thoma* 

Carlyle. 
Scarlet     Letter,     The.       By     Na- 
thaniel  Hawthorne. 
Schopenhauer's    Essays.      Trans* 

lated  by  T.   B.    Saunders. 
Scottish  Chiefs.     By  J4,ne  Porter. 
Scott's    Poems.      By    Sir   Walter 

Scott. 
Search  for  Basil  Lyndhurst.     By 

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Second  Wife,   The.     By  E.   Mar- 
litt. 
Seekers    After   God.      By    F.    W. 

Farrar. 
Self-Help.     By  Samuel  Smiles. 
Sense  and   Sensibility.     By  Jane 

Austen. 
Sesame    and     Lilies.       By    John 

Ruskin. 
Seven     Lamps     of     Architecture. 

By   John   Ruskin. 
Shadow    of    a    Crime.      By    Half 

Caine. 
Shadow  of  the  Sword.     By  Rob- 
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Shirley.      By   Charlotte   Bronte. 
Silas  Marnsr.     By  George  Eliot. 
Silence    of    Dean    Maitland.      By 

Maxwell  Grey. 
Sin      of     Joost      Avelingh.        By 

Maarten  Maartens. 
Sir     Gibbie,       By     George     Mao* 
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